weapon for the preservation of integrity, else breath were 
not worth the breathing, and hence to be regarded with 
respect and used with discretion. 

But he did not think this now and he had seen those same 
niggard blazes all his life. He merely ate his supper beside it 
and was already half asleep over his iron plate when his 
father called him, and once more he followed the stiff back, 
the stiff and ruthless limp, up the slope and on to the starlit 
road where, turning, he could see his father against the stars 
but without face or depth a shape black, flat, and bloodless 
as though cut from tin in the iron folds of the frockcoat 
which had not been made for him, the voice harsh like tin 
and without heat like tin: 

"You were fixing to tell them. You would have told him." 
He didn't answer. His father struck him with the flat of his 
hand on the side of the head, hard but without heat, exactly 
as he had struck the two mules at the store, exactly as he 
would strike either of them with any stick in order to kill 
a horse fly, his voice still without heat or anger: "You're 
getting to be a man. You got to learn. You got to learn to 
stick to your own blood or you ain't going to have any 
blood to stick to you. Do you think either of them, any man 
there this morning, would? Don't you know all they wanted 
was a chance to get at me because they knew I had them 
beat? Eh?" Later, twenty years later, he was to tell himself, 
"If I had said they wanted only truth, justice, he would have 
hit me again." But now he said nothing. He was not crying. 
He just stood there. "Answer me," his father said. 

"Yes," he whispered. His father turned. 

"Get on to bed. We'll be there tomorrow." 

To-morrow they were there. In the early afternoon the 
wagon stopped before a paintless two-room house identical 
almost with the dozen others it had stopped before even in 
the boy's ten years, and again, as on the other dozen occa- 



Barn Burning 9 

sions, his mother and aunt got down and began to unload the 
wagon, although his two sisters and his father and brother 
had not moved. 

"Likely hit ain't fitten for hawgs," one of the sisters said. 

"Nevertheless, fit it will and you'll hog it and like it," his 
father said. "Get out of them chairs and help your Ma un- 
load." 

The two sisters got down, big, bovine, in a flutter of 
cheap ribbons; one of them drew from the jumbled wagon 
bed a battered lantern, the other a worn broom. His father 
handed the reins to the older son and began to climb stiffly 
over the wheel. "When they get unloaded, take the team to 
the barn and feed them." Then he said, and at first the boy 
thought he was still speaking to his brother: "Come with 



me." 



"Me?" he said. 

"Yes," his father said. "You." 

'"Abner," his mother said. His father paused and looked 
back the harsh level stare beneath the shaggy, graying, 
irascible brows. 

"I reckon I'll have a word with the man that aims to begin 
to-morrow owning me body and soul for the next eight 
months." 

They went back up the road. A week ago or before last 
night, that is he would have asked where they were going, 
but not now. His father had struck him before last night 
but never before had he paused afterward to explain why; 
it was as if the blow and the following calm, outrageous 
voice still rang, repercussed, divulging nothing to him save 
the terrible handicap of being young, the light weight of his 
few years, just heavy enough to prevent his soaring free of 
the world as it seemed to be ordered but not heavy enough 
to keep him footed solid in it, to resist it and try to change 
the course of its events. 



io The Country 

Presently he could see the grove of oaks and cedars and 
the other flowering trees and shrubs where the house would 
be, though not the house yet. They walked beside a fence 
massed with honeysuckle and Cherokee roses and came to a 
gate swinging open between two brick pillars, and now, 
beyond a sweep of drive, he saw the house for the first time 
and at that instant he forgot his father and the terror and 
despair both, and even when he remembered his father again 
(who had not stopped) the terror and despair did not re- 
turn. Because, for all the twelve movings, they had sojourned 
until now in a poor country, a land of small farms and fields 
and houses, and he had never seen a house like this before. 
Hit's big as a courthouse he thought quietly, with a surge 
of peace and joy whose reason he could not have thought 
into words, being too young for that: They are safe from 
him. People 'whose lives are a part of this peace and dignity 
are beyond his touch, he no more to them than a buzzing 
wasp: capable of stinging for a little moment but that's all; 
the spell of this peace and dignity rendering even the barns 
and stable and cribs which belong to it impervious to the 
puny flames he might contrive . . . this, the peace and joy, 
ebbing for an instant as he looked again at the stiff black 
back, the stiff and implacable limp of the figure which was 
not dwarfed by the house, for the reason that it had never 
looked big anywhere and which now, against the serene 
columned backdrop, had more than ever that impervious 
quality of something cut ruthlessly from tin, depthless, as 
though, sidewise to the sun, it would cast no shadow. Watch- 
ing him, the boy remarked the absolutely undeviating course 
which his father held and saw the stiff foot come squarely 
down in a pile of fresh droppings where a horse had stood 
in the drive and which his father could have avoided by a 
simple change of stride. But it ebbed only for a moment, 
though he could not have thought this into words either, 



Barn Burning L i 

walking on in the spell of the house, which he could even 
want but without envy, without sorrow, certainly never 
with that ravening and jealous rage which unknown to him 
walked in the ironlike black coat before him: Maybe be will 
feel it too. Maybe it 'will even change him now from 'what 
maybe he couldn't help but be. 

They crossed the portico. Now he could hear his father's 
stiff foot as it came down on the boards with clocklike final- 
ity, a sound out of all proportion to the displacement of the 
body it bore and which was not dwarfed either by the white 
door before it, as though it had attained to a sort of vicious 
and ravening minimum not to be dwarfed by anything the 
fiat, wide, black hat, the formal coat of broadcloth which had 
once been black but which had now that friction-glazed 
greenish cast of the bodies of old house flies, the lifted sleeve 
which was too large, the lifted hand like a curled claw. The 
door opened so promptly that the boy knew the Negro must 
have been watching them all the time, an old man with neat 
grizzled hair, in a linen jacket, who stood barring the door 
with his body, saying, "Wipe yo foots, white man, fo you 
come in here. Major ain't home nohow." 

"Get out of my way, nigger," his father said, without 
heat too, flinging the door back and the Negro also and 
entering, his hat still on his head. And now the boy saw the 
prints of the stiff foot on the door jamb and saw them appear 
on the pale rug behind the machinelike deliberation of the 
foot which seemed to bear (or transmit) twice the weight 
which the body compassed. The Negro was shouting "Miss 
Lula! Miss Lula!" somewhere behind them, then the boy, 
deluged as though by a warm wave by a suave turn of 
carpeted stair and a pendant glitter of chandeliers and a mute 
gleam of gold frames, heard the swift feet and saw her too, 
a lady perhaps he had never seen her like before either 
in a gray, smooth gown with lace at the throat and an apron 



12 The Country 

tied at the waist and the sleeves turned back, wiping cake or 
biscuit dough from her hands with a towel as she came up 
the hall, looking not at his father at all but at the tracks on 
the blond rug with an expression of incredulous amazement. 

"I tried," the Negro cried. "I tole him to . . ." 

"Will you please go away?" she said in a shaking voice. 
"Major de Spain is not at home. Will you please go away?" 

His father had not spoken again. He did not speak again. 
He did not even look at her. He just stood stiff in the center 
of the rug, in his hat, the shaggy iron-gray brows twitching 
slightly above the pebble-colored eyes as he appeared to 
examine the house with brief deliberation. Then with the 
same deliberation he turned; the boy watched him pivot on 
the good leg and saw the stiff foot drag round the arc of 
the turning, leaving a final long and fading smear. His father 
never looked at it, he never once looked down at the rug. 
The Negro held the door. It closed behind them, upon the 
hysteric and indistinguishable woman-wail. His father 
stopped at the top of the steps and scraped his boot clean on 
the edge of it. At the gate he stopped again. He stood for 
a moment, planted stiffly on the stiff foot, looking back at 
the house. "Pretty and white, ain't it?" he said. "That's 
sweat. Nigger sweat. Maybe it ain't white enough yet to 
suit him. Maybe he wants to mix some white sweat with it." 

Two hours later the boy was chopping wood behind the 
house within which his mother and aunt and the two sisters 
(the mother and aunt, not the two girls, he knew that; even 
at this distance and muffled by walls the flat loud voices of 
the two girls emanated an incorrigible idle inertia) were 
setting up the stove to prepare a meal, when he heard the 
hooves and saw the linen-clad man on a fine sorrel mare, 
whom he recognized even before he saw the rolled rug in 
front of the Negro youth following on a fat bay carriage 
horse a suffused, angry face vanishing, still at full gallop, 



Barn Burning 13 

beyond the corner of the house where his father and brother 
were sitting in the two tilted chairs; and a moment later, 
almost before he could have put the axe down, he heard the 
hooves again and watched the sorrel mare go back out of 
the yard, already galloping again. Then his father began to 
shout one of the sisters' names, who presently emerged back- 
ward from the kitchen door dragging the rolled rug along 
the ground by one end while the other sister walked behind 
it. 

"If you ain't going to tote, go on and set up the wash 
pot," the first said. 

"You, Sarty!" the second shouted. "Set up the wash pot!" 
His father appeared at the door, framed against that shabbi- 
ness, as he had been against that other bland perfection, im- 
pervious to either, the mother's anxious face at his shoulder. 

"Go on," the father said. "Pick it up." The two sisters 
stooped, broad, lethargic; stooping, they presented an in- 
credible expanse of pale cloth and a flutter of tawdry rib- 
bons. 

"If I thought enough of a rug to have to git hit all the 
way from France I wouldn't keep hit where folks coming in 
would have to tromp on hit," the first said. They raised the 
rug. 

"Abner," the mother said. "Let me do it." 

"You go back and git dinner," his father said. "I'll tend to 
this." 

From the woodpile through the rest of the afternoon the 
boy watched them, the rug spread flat in the dust beside the 
bubbling wash-pot, the two sisters stooping over it with that 
profound and lethargic reluctance, while the father stood 
over them in turn, implacable and grim, driving them 
though never raising his voice again. He could smell the 
harsh homemade lye they were using; he saw his mother 
come to the door once and look toward them with an ex- 



14 The Country 

pression not anxious now but very like despair; he saw his 
father turn, and he fell to with the axe and .saw from the 
corner of his eye his father raise from the ground a flattish 
fragment of field stone and examine it and return to the pot, 
and this time his mother actually spoke: "Abner. Abner. 
Please don't. Please, Abner." 

Then he was done too. It was dusk; the whippoorwills had 
already begun. He could smell coffee from the room where 
they would presently eat the cold food remaining from the 
mid-afternoon meal, though when he entered the house he 
realized they were having coffee again probably because 
there was a fire on the hearth, before which the rug now lay 
spread over the backs of the two chairs. The tracks of his 
father's foot were gone. Where they had been were now 
long, water-cloudy scoriations resembling the sporadic 
course of a lilliputian mowing machine. 

It still hung there while they ate the cold food and then 
went to bed, scattered without order or claim up and down 
the two rooms, his mother in one bed, where his father 
would later lie, the older brother in the other, himself, the 
aunt, and the two sisters on pallets on the floor. But his 
father was not in bed yet. The last thing the boy remem- 
bered was the depthless, harsh silhouette of the hat and coat 
bending over the rug and it seemed to him that he had not 
even closed his eyes when the silhouette was standing over 
him, the fire almost dead behind it, the stiff foot prodding 
him awake. "Catch up the mule," his father said. 

When he returned with the mule his father was standing 
in the black door, the rolled rug over his shoulder. " Ain't 
you going to ride?" he said. 

"No. Give me your foot." 

He bent his knee into his father's hand, the wiry, surpris- 
ing power flowed smoothly, rising, he rising with it, on to the 
mule's bare back (they had owned a saddle once; the boy 



Barn Burning 15 

could remember it though not when or where) and with the 
same effortlessness his father swung the rug up in front of 
him. Now in the starlight they retraced the afternoon's path, 
up the dusty road rife with honeysuckle, through the gate 
and up the black tunnel of the drive to the lightless house, 
where he sat on the mule and felt the rough warp of the rug 
drag across his thighs and vanish. 

"Don't you 'want me to help?" he whispered. His father 
did not answer and now he heard again that stiff foot strik- 
ing the hollow portico with that wooden and clocklike de- 
liberation, that outrageous overstatement of the weight it 
carried. The rug, hunched, not flung (the boy could tell 
that even in the darkness) from his father's shoulder struck 
the angle of wall and floor with a sound unbelievably loud, 
thunderous, then the foot again, unhurried and enormous; a 
light came on in the house and the boy sat, tense, breathing 
steadily and quietly and just a little fast, though the foot 
itself did not increase its beat at all, descending the steps 
now; now the boy could see him. 

"Don't you want to ride now?" he whispered. "We kin 
both ride now," the light within the house altering now, 
flaring up and sinking. He's coming down the stairs no<w, 
he thought. He had already ridden the mule up beside the 
horse block; presently his father was up behind him and he 
doubled the reins over and slashed the mule across the neck, 
but before the animal could begin to trot the hard, thin arm 
came round him, the hard, knotted hand jerking the mule 
back to a walk. 

In the first red rays of the sun they were in the lot, putting 
plow gear on the mules. This time the sorrel mare was in the 
lot before he heard it at all, the rider collarless and even 
bareheaded, trembling, speaking in a shaking voice as the 
woman in the house had done, his father merely looking up 



1 6 The Country 

once before stooping again to the hame he was buckling, so 
that the man on the mare spoke to his stooping back: 

"You must realize you have ruined that rug. Wasn't there 
anybody here, any of your women . . ." he ceased, shaking, 
the boy watching him, the older brother leaning now in the 
stable door, chewing, blinking slowly and steadily at nothing 
apparently. "It cost a hundred dollars. But you never had a 
hundred dollars. You never will. So I'm going to charge you 
twenty bushels of corn against your crop. I'll add it in your 
contract and when you come to the commissary you can 
sign it. That won't keep Mrs. de Spain quiet but maybe it 
will teach you to wipe your feet off before you enter her 
house again." 

Then he was gone. The boy looked at his father, who still 
had not spoken or even looked up again, who was now ad- 
justing the logger-head in the hame. 

"Pap," he said. His father looked at him the inscrutable 
face, the shaggy brows beneath which the gray eyes glinted 
coldly. Suddenly the boy went toward him, fast, stopping 
as suddenly. "You done the best you could!" he cried. "If 
he wanted hit done different why didn't he wait and tell 
you how? He won't git no twenty bushels! He won't git 
none! We'll gether hit and hide hit! I kin watch . . ." 

"Did you put the cutter back in that straight stock like 
I told you?" 

"No, sir," he said. 

"Then go do it." 

That was Wednesday. During the rest of that week he 
\vorked steadily, at what was within his scope and some 
\vhich was beyond it, with an industry that did not need to 
be driven nor even commanded twice; he had this from his 
mother, with the difference that some at least of what he 
did he liked to do, such as splitting wood with the half-size 
axe which his mother and aunt had earned, or saved money 



Barn Burning \j 

somehow, to present him with at Christmas. In company 
with the two older women (and on one afternoon, even one 
of the sisters) , he built pens for the shoat and the cow which 
were a part of his father's contract with the landlord, and 
one afternoon, his father being absent, gone somewhere on 
one of the mules, he went to the field. 

They were running a middle buster now, his brother 
holding the plow straight while he handled the reins, and 
walking beside the straining mule, the rich black soil shear- 
ing cool and damp against his bare ankles, he thought Maybe 
this is the end of it. Maybe even that twenty bushels that 
seems hard to have to pay for just a rug 'will be a cheap price 
for him to stop forever and always from being what he used 
to be; thinking, dreaming now, so that his brother had to 
speak sharply to him to mind the mule: Maybe he even 
won't collect the twenty bushels. Maybe it will all add up 
and balance and vanish corn, rug, fire; the terror and grief, 
the being pulled two ways like between two teams of horses 
gone, done with for ever and ever. 

Then it was Saturday; he looked up from beneath the 
mule he was harnessing and saw his father in the black coat 
and hat. "Not that," his father said. "The wagon gear." 
And then, two hours later, sitting in the wagon bed behind 
his father and brother on the seat, the wagon accomplished 
a final curve, and he saw the weathered paintless store with 
its tattered tobacco- and patent-medicine posters and the 
tethered wagons and saddle animals below the gallery. He 
mounted the gnawed steps behind his father and brother, 
and there again was the lane of quiet, watching faces for the 
three of them to walk through. He saw the man in spec- 
tacles sitting at the plank table and he did not need to be 
told this was a Justice of the Peace; he sent one glare of 
fierce, exultant, partisan defiance at the man in collar and 
cravat now, whom he had seen but twice before in his life, 



1 8 The Country 

and that on a galloping horse, who now wore on his face 
an expression not of rage but of amazed unbelief which the 
boy could not have known was at the incredible circum- 
stance of being sued by one of his own tenants, and came 
and stood against his father and cried at the Justice: "He 
ain't done it! He ain't burnt . . ." 

"Go back to the wagon," his father said. 

''Burnt?" the Justice said. "Do I understand this rug was 
burned too?" 

"Does anybody here claim it was?" his father said. "Go 
back to the wagon." But he did not, he merely retreated to 
the rear of the room, crowded as that other had been, but 
not to sit down this time, instead, to stand pressing among 
the motionless bodies, listening to the voices: 

"And you claim twenty bushels of corn is too high for 
the damage you did to the rug?" 

"He brought the rug to me and said he wanted the tracks 
washed out of it. I washed the tracks out and took the rug 
back to him." 

"But you didn't carry the rug back to him in the same 
condition it was in before you made the tracks on it." 

His father did not answer, and now for perhaps half a 
minute there was no sound at all save that of breathing, the 
faint, steady suspiration of complete and intent listening. 

"You decline to answer that, Mr. Snopes?" Again his 
father did not answer. "I'm going to find against you, Mr. 
Snopes. I'm going to find that you were responsible for the 
injury to Major de Spain's rug and hold you liable for it. 
But twenty bushels of corn seems a little high for a man in 
your circumstances to have to pay. Major de Spain claims it 
cost a hundred dollars. October corn will be worth about 
fifty cents. I figure that if Major de Spain can stand a ninety- 
five dollar loss on something he paid cash for, you can stand 
a five-dollar loss you haven't earned yet. I hold you in dam- 



Barn Burning 19 

ages to Major de Spain to the amount of ten bushels of corn 
over and above your contract with him, to be paid to him 
out of your crop at gathering time. Court adjourned." 

It had taken no time hardly, the morning was but half 
begun. He thought they would return home and perhaps 
back to the field, since they were late, far behind all other 
farmers. But instead his father passed on behind the wagon, 
merely indicating with his hand for the older brother to 
follow with it, and crossed the road toward the blacksmith 
shop opposite, pressing on after his father, overtaking him, 
speaking, whispering up at the harsh, calm face beneath the 
weathered hat: "He won't git no ten bushels neither. He 
won't git one. We'll . . ." until his father glanced for an 
instant down at him, the face absolutely calm, the grizzled 
eyebrows tangled above the cold eyes, the voice almost 
pleasant, almost gentle: 

"You think so? Well, we'll wait till October anyway." 

The matter of the wagon the setting of a spoke or two 
and the tightening of the tires did not take long either, the 
business of the tires accomplished by driving the wagon into 
the spring branch behind the shop and letting it stand there, 
the mules nuzzling into the water from time to time, and the 
boy on the seat with the idle reins, looking up the slope and 
through the sooty tunnel of the shed where the slow ham- 
mer rang and where his father sat on an upended cypress 
bolt, easily, either talking or listening, still sitting there when 
the boy brought the dripping wagon up out of the branch 
and halted it before the door. 

"Take them on to the shade and hitch," his father said. 
He did so and returned. His father and the smith and a third 
man squatting on his heels inside the door were talking, 
about crops and animals; the boy, squatting too in the am- 
moniac dust and hoof-parings and scales of rust, heard his 
father tell a long and unhurried story out of the time before 



20 The Country 

the birth of the older brother even when he had been a pro- 
fessional horsetrader. And then his father came up beside 
him where he stood before a tattered last year's circus poster 
on the other side of the store, gazing rapt and quiet at the 
scarlet horses, the incredible poisings and convolutions of 
tulle and tights and the painted leers of comedians, and said, 
"It's time to eat." 

But not at home. Squatting beside his brother against the 
front wall, he watched his father emerge from the store and 
produce from a paper sack a segment of cheese and divide it 
carefully and deliberately into three with his pocket knife 
and produce crackers from the same sack. They all three 
squatted on the gallery and ate, slowly, without talking; 
then in the store again, they drank from a tin dipper tepid 
water smelling of the cedar bucket and of living beech trees. 
And still they did not go home. It was a horse lot this time, 
a tall rail fence upon and along which men stood and sat 
and out of which one by one horses were led, to be walked 
and trotted and then cantered back and forth along the road 
while the slow swapping and buying went on and the sun 
began to slant westward, they the three of them watch- 
ing and listening, the older brother with his muddy eyes and 
his steady, inevitable tobacco, the father commenting now 
and then on certain of the animals, to no one in particular. 

It was after sundown when they reached home. They ate 
supper by lamplight, then, sitting on the doorstep, the boy 
watched the night fully accomplish, listening to the whip- 
poorwills and the frogs, when he heard his mother's voice: 
"Abner! No! No! Oh, God. Oh, God. Abner!" and he rose, 
whirled, and saw the altered light through the door where 
a candle stub now burned in a bottle neck on the table and 
his father, still in the hat and coat, at once formal and bur- 
lesque as though dressed carefully for some shabby and 
ceremonial violence, emptying the reservoir of the lamp 



Barn Burning 2 1 

back into the five-gallon kerosene can from which it had 
been filled, while the mother tugged at his arm until he 
shifted the lamp to the other hand and flung her back, not 
savagely or viciously, just hard, into the wall, her hands 
flung out against the wall for balance, her mouth open and 
in her face the same quality of hopeless despair as had been 
in. her voice. Then his father saw him standing in the door. 

"Go to the barn and get that can of oil we were oiling 
the wagon with," he said. The boy did not move. Then he 
could speak. 

"What . . ." he cried. "What are you . . ." 

"Go get that oil," his father said. "Go." 

Then he was moving, running, outside the house, toward 
the stable: this the old habit, the old blood which he had not 
been permitted to choose for himself, which had been be- 
queathed him willy nilly and which had run for so long 
(and who knew where, battening on what of outrage and 
savagery and lust) before it came to him. / could keep on, 
he thought. / could run on and on and never look back, 
never need to see his face again. Only I carft. I can't, the 
rusted can in his hand now, the liquid sploshing in it as he 
ran back to the house and into it, into the sound of his 
mother's weeping in the next room, and handed the can to 
his father. 

"Ain't you going to even send a nigger?" he cried. "At 
least you sent a nigger before!" 

This time his father didn't strike him. The hand came 
even faster than the blow had, the same hand which had set 
the can on the table with almost excruciating care flashing 
from the can toward him too quick for him to follow it, 
gripping him by the back of his shirt and on to tiptoe before 
he had seen it quit the can, the face stooping at him in 
breathless and frozen ferocity, the cold, dead voice speaking 
over him to the older brother who leaned against the table. 



22 The Country 

chewing with that steady, curious, sidewise motion of cows: 

"Empty the can into the big one and go on. I'll catch up 
with you/' 

"Better tie him up to the bedpost," the brother said. 

"Do like I told you," the father said. Then the boy was 
moving, his bunched shirt and the hard, bony hand between 
his shoulder-blades, his toes just touching the floor, across 
the room and into the other one, past the sisters sitting with 
spread heavy thighs in the two chairs over the cold hearth, 
and to where his mother and aunt sat side by side on the 
bed, the aunt's arms about his mother's shoulders. 

"Hold him," the father said. The aunt made a startled 
movement. "Not you," the father said. "Lennie. Take hold 
of him. I want to see you do it." His mother took him by the 
wrist. "You'll hold him better than that. If he gets loose 
don't you know what he is going to do? He will go up 
yonder." He jerked his head toward the road. "Maybe I'd 
better tie him." 

"I'll hold him," his mother whispered. 

"See you do then." Then his father was gone, the stiff 
foot heavy and measured upon the boards, ceasing at last. 

Then he began to struggle. His mother caught him in 
both arms, he jerking and wrenching at them. He would be 
stronger in the end, he knew that. But he had no time to wait 
for it. "Lemme go!" he cried. "I don't want to have to hit 
you!" 

"Let him go!" the aunt said. "If he don't go, before God, 
I am going up there myself! " 

"Don't you see I can't?" his mother cried. "Sarty! Sarty! 
No! No! Help me, Lizzie!" 

Then he was free. His aunt grasped at him but it was too 
late. He whirled, running, his mother stumbled forward on 
to her knees behind him, crying to the nearer sister: "Catch 
him, Net! Catch him!" But that was too late too, the sister 



Barn Burning 23 

(the sisters were twins, born at the same time, yet either of 
them now gave the impression of being, encompassing as 
much living meat and volume and weight as any other two 
of the family) not yet having begun to rise from the chair, 
her head, face, alone merely turned, presenting to him in 
the flying instant an astonishing expanse of young female 
features untroubled by any surprise even, wearing only an 
expression of bovine interest. Then he was out of the room, 
out of the house, in the mild dust of the starlit road and the 
heavy rifeness of honeysuckle, the pale ribbon unspooling 
with terrific slowness under his running feet, reaching the 
gate at last and turning in, running, his heart and lungs 
drumming, on up the drive toward the lighted house, the 
lighted door. He did not knock, he burst in, sobbing for 
breath, incapable for the moment of speech; he saw the 
astonished face of the Negro in the linen jacket without 
knowing when the Negro had appeared. 

"De Spain!" he cried, panted. "Where's . . ." then he saw 
the white man too emerging from a white door down the 
hall. "Barn!" he cried. "Barn!" 

"What?" the white man said. "Barn?" 

"Yes!" the boy cried. "Barn!" 

"Catch him!" the white man shouted. 

But it was too late this time too. The Negro grasped his 
shirt, but the entire sleeve, rotten with washing, carried 
away, and he was out that door too and in the drive again, 
and had actually never ceased to run even while he was 
screaming into the white man's face. 

Behind him the white man was shouting, "My horse! 
Fetch my horse!" and he thought for an instant of cutting 
across the park and climbing the fence into the road, but he 
did not know the park nor how high the vine-massed fence 
might be and he dared not risk it. So he nn on down the 
drive, blood and breath roaring; presently he was in the 



24 The Country 

road again though he could not see it. He could not hear 
either: the galloping mare was almost upon him before he 
heard her, and even then he held his course, as if the very 
urgency of his wild grief and need must in a moment more 
find him wings, waiting until the ultimate instant to hurl 
himself aside and into the weed-choked roadside ditch as the 
horse thundered past and on, for an instant in furious sil- 
houette against the stars, the tranquil early summer night sky 
which, even before the shape of the horse and rider vanished, 
stained abruptly and violently upward: a long, swirling roar 
incredible and soundless, blotting the stars, and he springing 
up and into the road again, running again, knowing it was 
too late yet still running even after he heard the shot and, 
an instant later, two shots, pausing now without knowing he 
had ceased to run, crying "Pap! Pap!", running again before 
he knew he had begun to run, stumbling, tripping over some- 
thing and scrabbling up again without ceasing to run, look- 
ing backward over his shoulder at the glare as he got up, 
running on among the invisible trees, panting, sobbing, 
"Father! Father!" 

At midnight he was sitting on the crest of a hill. He did 
not know it was midnight and he did not know how far he 
had come. But there was no glare behind him now and he 
sat now, his back toward what he had called home for four 
days anyhow, his face toward the dark woods which he 
would enter when breath was strong again, small, shaking 
steadily in the chill darkness, hugging himself into the re- 
mainder of his thin, rotten shirt, the grief and despair now no 
longer terror and fear but just grief and despair. Father. 
My father, he thought. "He was brave!" he cried suddenly, 
aloud but not loud, no more than a whisper: "He was! He 
was in the war! He was in Colonel Sartoris' cav'ry!" not 
knowing that his father had gone to that war a private in 
the fine old European sense, wearing no uniform, admitting 



Barn Burning 25 

the authority of and giving fidelity to no man or army or 
flag, going to war as Malbrouck himself did: for booty it 
meant nothing and less than nothing to him if it were enemy 
booty or his own. 

The slow constellations wheeled on. It would be dawn 
and then sun-up after a while and he would be hungry. But 
that would be to-morrow and now he was only cold, and 
walking would cure that. His breathing was easier now and 
he decided to get up and go on, and then he found that he 
had been asleep because he knew it was almost dawn, the 
night almost over. He could tell that from the whippoor- 
wills. They were everywhere now among the dark trees 
below him, constant and inflectioned and ceaseless, so that, 
as the instant for giving over to the day birds drew nearer 
and nearer, there was no interval at all between them. He 
got up. He was a little stiff, but walking would cure that 
too as it would the cold, and soon there would be the sun. 
He went on down the hill, toward the dark woods within 
which the liquid silver voices of the birds called unceasing 
the rapid and urgent beating of the urgent and quiring 
heart of the late spring night. He did not look back. 



Shingles for the Lord 



PAP GOT UP a good hour before daylight and caught the 
mule and rid down to Killegrews' to borrow the froe and 
maul. He ought to been back with it in forty minutes. But 
the sun had rose and I had done milked and fed and was eat- 
ing my breakfast when he got back, with the mule not only 
in a lather but right on the edge of the thumps too. 

"Fox hunting," he said. "Fox hunting. A seventy-year-old 
man, with both feet and one knee, too, already in the grave, 
squatting all night on a hill and calling himself listening to a 
fox race that he couldn't even hear unless they had come 
right up onto the same log he was setting on and bayed into 
his ear trumpet. Give me my breakfast," he told maw. 
"Whitfield is standing there right this minute, straddle of that 
board tree with his watch in his hand." 

And he was. We rid on past the church, and there was not 
only Solon Quick's school-bus truck but Reverend Whit- 
field's old mare too. We tied the mule to a sapling and hung 
our dinner bucket on a limb, and with pap toting Killegrew's 
froe and maul and the wedges and me toting our ax, we went 
on to the board tree where Solon and Homer Bookwright, 
with their froes and mauls and axes and wedges, was setting 
on two upended cuts, and Whitfield was standing jest like 
pap said, in his boiled shirt and his black hat and pants and 
necktie, holding his watch in his hand. It was gold and in 



28 The Country 

the morning sunlight it looked big as a full-growed squash. 

"You're late/' he said. 

So pap told again about how Old Man Killegrew had been 
off fox hunting all night, and nobody at home to lend him the 
froe but Mrs. Killegrew and the cook. And naturally, the 
cook wasn't going to lend none of Killegrew's tools out, and 
Mrs. Killegrew was worser deaf than even Killegrew. If you 
was to run in and tell her the house was afire, she would jest 
keep on rocking and say she thought so, too, unless she began 
to holler back to the cook to turn the dogs loose before you 
could even open your mouth. 

"You could have gone yesterday and borrowed the froe," 
Whitfield said. "You have known for a month now that you 
had promised this one day out of a whole summer toward 
putting a roof on the house of God." 

"We ain't but two hours late," pap said. "I reckon the 
Lord will forgive it. He ain't interested in time, nohow. He's 
interested in salvation." 

Whitfield never even waited for pap to finish. It looked to 
me like he even got taller, thundering down at pap like a 
cloudburst. "He ain't interested in neither! Why should He 
be, when He owns them both? And why He should turn 
around for the poor, mizzling souls of men that can't even 
borrow tools in time to replace the shingles on His church, I 
don't know either. Maybe it's just because He made them. 
Maybe He just said to Himself: 'I made them; I don't know 
why. But since I did, I Godfrey, I'll roll My sleeves up and 
drag them into glory whether they will or no!' " 

But that wasn't here nor there either now, and I reckon 
he knowed it, jest like he knowed there wasn't going to 
be nothing atall here as long as he stayed. So he put the 
watch back into his pocket and motioned Solon and Homei 
up, and we all taken off our hats except him while he stood 
there with his face raised into the sun and his eyes shut and 



Shingles for the Lord 29 

his eyebrows looking like a big iron-gray caterpillar lying 
along the edge of a cliff. "Lord," he said, "make them good 
straight shingles to lay smooth, and let them split out easy; 
they're for You," and opened his eyes and looked at us again, 
mostly at pap, and went and untied his mare and dumb up 
slow and stiff, like old men do, and rid away. 

Pap put down the froe and maul and laid the three wedges 
in a neat row on the ground and taken up the ax. 

"Well, men," he said, "let's get started. We're already 
late." 

"Me and Homer ain't," Solon said. "We was here." This 
time him and Homer didn't set on the cuts. They squatted 
on their heels. Then I seen that Homer was whittling on a 
stick. I hadn't noticed it before. "I make it two hours and a 
little over," Solon said. "More or less." 

Pap was still about half stooped over, holding the ax. "It's 
nigher one," he said. "But call it two for the sake of the argu- 
ment. What about it?" 

"What argument?" Homer said. 

"Yessum," Ab said. Then he said it again: "Hell fire." He 
went into the lot and rammed the bit into the tied horse's 
mouth and clapped the saddle on and snatched the piece of 
plow-line off and threw it over the fence and got up and 
Granny stood there until he had ridden out of the lot and 
Ringo closed the gate and that was the first time I noticed the 
chain and padlock from the smokehouse door and Ringo 
locked it and handed Granny the key and Ab sat for a min- 
ute, looking down at her. "Well, good-day," he said. "I just 
hope for the sake of the Confedricy that Bed Forrest don't 
never tangle with you with all the horses he's got." Then he 
said it again, maybe worse this time because now he was al- 
ready on a horse pointed toward the gate: u Or you'll damn 
shore leave him just one more passel of infantry before he 
can spit twice." 

Then he was gone too. Except for hearing Cousin Meli- 
sandre now and then, and those six horses with U.S. branded 
on their hips standing in the lot, it might never have hap- 
pened. At least Ringo and I thought that was all of it. Every 
now and then Philadelphia would come downstairs with the 
pitcher and draw some more cold water for Cousin Meli- 
sandre's cloths but we thought that after a while even that 
would just wear out and quit. Then Philadelphia came down 
again and came in to where Granny was cutting down a pair 
of Yankee pants that Father had worn home last time so they 
would fit Ringo. She didn't say anything. She just stood in 
the door until Grannv said. "All right. What now?" 



My Grandmother Millard 687 

"She want the banjo," Philadelphia said. 

"What?" Granny said. "My dulcimer? She can't play it. 
Go back upstairs." 

But Philadelphia didn't move. "Could I ax Mammy to come 
help me?" 

"No," Granny said. "Louvinia's resting. She's had about as 
much of this as I want her to stand. Go back upstairs. Give 
her some more wine if you can't think of anything else." And 
she told Ringo and me to go somewhere else, anywhere else, 
but even in the yard you could still hear Cousin Melisandre 
talking to Philadelphia. And once we even heard Granny 
though it was still mostly Cousin Melisandre telling Granny 
that she had already forgiven her, that nothing whatever had 
happened and that all she wanted now was peace. And after 
a while Louvinia came up from the cabin without even being 
sent for and went upstairs and then it began to look like we 
were going to be late for supper too. But Philadelphia finally 
came down and cooked it and carried Cousin Melisandre's 
tray up and then we quit eating; we could hear Louvinia 
overhead, in Granny's room now, and she came down and 
set the untasted tray on the table and stood beside Granny's 
chair with the key to the trunk in her hand. 

"All right," Granny said. "Go call Joby and Lucius." We 
got the lantern and the shovels. We went to the orchard and 
removed the brush and dug up the trunk and got the dulci- 
mer and buried the trunk and put the brush back and brought 
the key in to Granny. And Ringo and I could hear her from 
our room and Granny was right. We heard her for a long 
time and Granny was surely right; she just never said but 
half of it. The moon came up after a while and we could look 
down from our window into the garden, at Cousin Melisan- 
dre sitting on the bench with the moonlight glinting on the 
pearl inlay of the dulcimer, and Philadelphia squatting on the 



688 The Middle Ground 

sill of the gate with her apron over her head. Maybe she was 
asleep. It was already late. But I don't see how. 

So we didn't hear Granny until she was already in the 
room, her shawl over her nightgown and carrying a candle. 
"In a minute I'm going to have about all of this I aim to stand 
too," she said. "Go wake Lucius and tell him to saddle the 
mule," she told Ringo. "Bring me the pen and ink and a 
sheet of paper." I fetched them. She didn't sit down. She 
stood at the bureau while I held the candle, writing even 
and steady and not very much, and signed her name and let 
the paper lie open to dry until Lucius came in. "Ab Snopes 
said that Mr. Forrest is in Jefferson," she told Lucius. "Find 
him. Tell him I will expect him here for breakfast in the 
morning and to bring that boy." She used to know General 
Forrest in Memphis before he got to be a general. He used to 
trade with Grandfather Millard's supply house and some- 
times he would come out to sit with Grandfather on the front 
gallery and sometimes he would eat with them. "You can tell 
him I have six captured horses for him," she said. "And never 
mind patter-rollers or soldiers either. Haven't you got my 
signature on that paper?" 

"I ain't worrying about them," Lucius said. "But suppose 
them Yankees " 

"I see," Granny said. "Hah. I forgot. You've been waiting 
for Yankees, haven't you? But those this morning seemed to 
be too busy trying to stay free to have much time to talk 
about it, didn't they? Get along," she said. "Do you think 
any Yankee is going to dare ignore what a Southern soldier 
or even a patter-roller wouldn't? And you go to bed," she 
said. 

We lay down, both of us on Ringo's pallet. We heard the 
mule when Lucius left. Then we heard the mule and at first 
we didn't know we had been asleep, the mule coming back 
now and the moon had started down the west and Cousin 



My Grandmother Millard 689 

Melisandre and Philadelphia were gone from the garden, to 
where Philadelphia at least could sleep better than sitting on 
a square sill with an apron over her head, or at least where it 
was quieter. And we heard Lucius fumbling up the stairs but 
we never heard Granny at all because she was already at the 
top of the stairs, talking down at the noise Lucius was trying 
not to make. "Speak up," she said. "I ain't asleep but I ain't 
a lip-reader either. Not in the dark." 

"Genl Fawhrest say he respectful compliments," Lucius 
said, "and he can't come to breakfast this morning because 
he gonter to be whuppin Genl Smith at Tallahatchie Cross- 
ing about that time. But providin he ain't too 1 ur away in the 
wrong direction when him and Genl Smith git done, he be 
proud to accept your invitation next time he in the neighbor- 
hood. And he say 'whut boy'." 

While you could count about five, Granny didn't say any- 
thing. Then she said, "What?" 

"He say Vhut boy'," Lucius said. 

Then you could have counted ten. All we could hear was 
Lucius breathing. Then Granny said: "Did you wipe the 
mule down?" 

"Yessum," Lucius said. 

"Did you turn her back into the pasture?" 

"Yessum," Lucius said. 

"Then go to bed," Granny said. "And you too," she said. 

General Forrest found out what boy. This time we didn't 
know we had been asleep either, and it was no one mule now. 
The sun was just rising. When we heard Granny and scram- 
bled to the window, yesterday wasn't a patch on it. There 
were at least fifty of them now, in gray; the whole outdoors 
was full of men on horses, with Cousin Philip out in front of 
them, sitting his horse in almost exactly the same spot where 
he had been yesterday, looking up at Granny's window and 
not seeing it or anything else this tJme either. He had a hat 



690 The Middle Ground 

now. He was holding it clamped over his heart and he hadn't 
shaved and yesterday he had looked younger than Ringo 
because Ringo always had looked about ten years older than 
me. But now, with the first sun-ray making a little soft fuzz 
in the gold-colored stubble on his face, he looked even 
younger than I did, and gaunt and worn in the face like he 
hadn't slept any last night and something else in his face too: 
like he not only hadn't slept last night but by godfrey he 
wasn't going to sleep tonight either as long as he had any- 
thing to do with it. "Goodbye," he said. "Goodbye," and 
whirled his horse, spurring, and raised the new hat over his 
head like he had carried the sabre yesterday and the whole 
mass of them went piling back across flower beds and lawns 
and all and back down the drive toward the gate while 
Granny still stood at her window in her nightgown, her voice 
louder than any man's anywhere, I don't care who he is or 
what he would be doing: "Backhouse! Backhouse! You, 
Backhouse!" 

So we ate breakfast early. Granny sent Ringo in his night- 
shirt to wake Louvinia and Lucius both. So Lucius had the 
mule saddled before Louvinia even got the fire lit. This time 
Granny didn't write a note. "Go to Tallahatchie Crossing," 
she told Lucius. "Sit there and wait for him if necessary." 

"Suppose they done already started the battle?" Lucius 
said. 

"Suppose they have?" Granny said. "What business is that 
of yours or mine either? You find Bedford Forrest. Tell him 
this is important; it won't take long. But don't you show 
your face here again without him." 

Lucius rode away. He was gone four days. He didn't even 
get back in time for the wedding, coming back up the drive 
about sundown on the fourth day with two soldiers in one 
of General Forrest's forage wagons with the mule tied to the 
tailgate. He didn't know where he had been and he never 



My Grandmother Millar d 69 1 

did catch up with the battle. "I never even heard it," he told 
Joby and Lucius and Louvinia and Philadelphia and Ringo 
and me. "If wars always moves that far and that fast, I don't 
see how they ever have time to fight." 

But it was all over then. It was the second day, the day 
after Lucius left. It was just after dinner this time and by 
now we were used to soldiers. But these were different, just 
five of them, and we never had seen just that few of them 
before and we had come to think of soldiers as either jumping 
on and off horses in the yard or going back and forth through 
Granny's flower beds at full gallop. These were all officers 
and I reckon maybe I hadn't seen so many soldiers after all 
because I never saw this much braid before. They came up 
the drive at a trot, like people just taking a ride, and stopped 
without trompling even one flower bed and General Forrest 
got down and came up the walk toward where Granny 
waited on the front gallery a big, dusty man with a big 
beard so black it looked almost blue and eyes like a sleepy 
owl, already taking off his hat. "Well, Miss Rosie," he said. 

"Don't call me Rosie," Granny said. "Come in. Ask your 
gentlemen to alight and come in." 

"They'll wait there," General Forrest said. "We are a little 
rushed. My plans have. . . ." Then we were in the library. He 
wouldn't sit down. He looked tired all right, but there was 
something else a good deal livelier than just tired. "Well y 
Miss Rosie," he said. "I " 

"Don't call me Rosie," Granny said. "Can't you even say 
Rosa?" 

"Yessum," he said. But he couldn't. At least, he never did, 
"I reckon we both have had about enough of this. That 
boy " 

"Hah," Granny said. "Night before last you were saying 
what boy. Where is he? I sent you word to bring him with 
you." 



692 The Middle Ground 

"Under arrest," General Forrest said. It was a considerable 
more than just tired. "I spent four days getting Smith just 
where I wanted him. After that, this boy here could have 
fought the battle." He said 'fit' for fought just as he said 
'druv' for drove and 'drug' for dragged. But maybe when 
you fought battles like he did, even Granny didn't mind how 
you talked. "I won't bother you with details. He didn't know 
them either. All he had to do was exactly what I told him. I 
did everything but draw a diagram on his coat-tail of exactly 
what he was to do, no more and no less, from the time he left 
me until he saw me again: which was to make contact and 
then fall back. I gave him just exactly the right number of 
men so that he couldn't do anything else but that. I told him 
exactly how fast to fall back and how much racket to make 
doing it and even how to make the racket. But what do you 
think he did?" 

"I can tell you," Granny said. "He sat on his horse at five 
o'clock yesterday morning, with my whole yard full of men 
behind him, yelling goodbye at my window." 

"He divided his men and sent half of them into the bushes 
to make a noise and took the other half who were the nearest 
to complete fools and led a sabre charge on that outpost. He 
didn't fire a shot. He drove it clean back with sabres onto 
Smith's main body and scared Smith so that he threw out all 
his cavalry and pulled out behind it and now I don't know 
whether I'm about to catch him or he's about to catch me. 
My provost finally caught the boy last night. He had come 
back and got the other thirty men of his company and was 
twenty miles ahead again, trying to find something to lead 
another charge against. 'Do you want to be killed?' I said. 
'Not especially,' he said. 'That is, I don't especially care one 
way or the other.' 'Then neither do I,' I said. 'But you risked 
a whole company of my men.' 'Ain't that what they enlisted 
for?' he said. 'They enlisted into a military establishment the 



My Grandmother Millar d 693 

purpose of which is to expend each man only at a profit. Or 
maybe you don't consider me a shrewd enough trader in 
human meat?' 1 can't say,' he said. 'Since day before yester- 
day I ain't thought very much about how you or anybody 
else runs this war.' 'And just what were you doing day before 
yesterday that changed your ideas and habits? ' I said. Tight- 
ing some of it/ he said. 'Dispersing the enemy.' 'Where?' I 
said. 'At a lady's house a few miles from Jefferson,' he said. 
'One of the niggers called her Granny like the white boy did. 
The others called her Miss Rosie.' " This time Granny didn't 
say anything. She just waited. 

"Go on," she said. 

" Tm still trying to win battles, even if since day before 
yesterday you ain't,' I said. I'll send you down to Johnston 
at Jackson,' I said. 'He'll put you inside Vicksburg, where 
you can lead private charges day and night too if you want.' 
'Like hell you will,' he said. And I said excuse me 'Like 
hell I won't.' " And Granny didn't say anything. It was like 
day before yesterday with Ab Snopes: not like she hadn't 
heard but as if right now it didn't matter, that this was no 
time either to bother with such. 

"And did you?" she said. 

"I can't. He knows it. You can't punish a man for routing 
an enemy four times his weight. What would I say back 
there in Tennessee, where we both live, let alone that uncle 
of his, the one they licked for Governor six years ago, on 
Bragg's personal staff now, with his face over Bragg's shoul- 
der every time Bragg opens a dispatch or picks up a pen. And 
I'm still trying to win battles. But I can't. Because of a girl, 
one single lone young female girl that ain't got anything 
under the sun against him except that, since it was his mis- 
fortune to save her from a passel of raiding enemy in a situa- 
tion that everybody but her is trying to forget, she can't seem 
to bear to hear his last name. Yet because of that, every battle 



694 The Middle Ground 

I plan from now on will be at the mercy of a twenty-two- 
year-old shavetail excuse me again who might decide to 
lead a private charge any time he can holler at least two men 
in gray coats into moving in the same direction." He stopped. 
He looked at Granny. "Well?" he said. 

"So now youVe got to it," Granny said. "Well what, Mr. 
Forrest?" 

"Why, just have done with this foolishness. I told you I've 
got that boy, in close arrest, with a guard with a bayonet. 
But there won't be any trouble there. I figured even yester- 
day morning that he had already lost his mind. But I reckon 
he's recovered enough of it since the Provost took him last 
night to comprehend that I still consider myself his com- 
mander even if he don't. So all necessary now is for you to 
put your foot down. Put it down hard. Now. You're her 
grandma. She lives in your home. And it looks like she is 
going to live in it a good while yet before she gets back to 
Memphis to that uncle or whoever it is that calls himself her 
guardian. So just put your foot down. Make her. Mr. Millard 
would have already done that if he had been here. And I 
know when. It would have been two days ago by now." 

Granny waited until he got done. She stood with her arms 
crossed, holding each elbow in the other. "Is that all I'm to 
do?" she said. 

"Yes," General Forrest said. "If she don't want to listen 
to you right at first, maybe as his commander " 

Granny didn't even say "Hah." She didn't even send me. 
She didn't even stop in the hall and call. She went upstairs 
herself and we stood there and I thought maybe she was 
going to bring the dulcimer too and I thought how if I was 
General Forrest I would go back and get Cousin Philip and 
make him sit in the library until about supper-time while 
Cousin Melisandre played the dulcimer and sang. Then he 



My Grandmother Millard 695 

could take Cousin Philip on back and then he could finish 
the war without worrying. 

She didn't have the dulcimer. She just had Cousin Meh- 
sandre. They came in- and Granny stood to one side again 
with her arms crossed, holding her elbows. "Here she is," she 
said. "Say it This is Mr. Bedford Forrest," she told Cousin 
Melisandre. "Say it," she told General Forrest. 

He didn't have time. When Cousin Melisandre first came, 
she tried to read aloud to Ringo and me. It wasn't much. That 
is, what she insisted on reading to us wasn't so bad, even if it 
was mostly about ladies looking out windows and playing 
on something (maybe they were dulcimers too) while some- 
body else was off somewhere fighting. It was the way she 
read it. When Granny said this is Mister Forrest, Cousin 
Melisandre's face looked exactly like her voice would sound 
when she read to us. She took two steps into the library and 
curtsied, spreading her hoops back, and stood up. "General 
Forrest," she said. "I am acquainted with an associate of his. 
Will the General please give him the sinccrest wishes for 
triumph in war and success in love, from one who will never 
see him again?" Then she curtsied again and spread her hoops 
backward and stood up and took two steps backward and 
turned and went out. 

After a while Granny said, "Well, Mr. Forrest?" 

General Forrest began to cough. He lifted his coattail with 
one hand and reached the other into his hip pocket like he 
was going to pull at least a musket out of it and got his hand- 
kerchief and coughed into it a while. It wasn't very clean. It 
looked about like the one Cousin Philip was trying to wipe his 
coat off with in the summer house day before yesterday. 
Then he put the handkerchief back. He didn't say "Hah" 
either. "Can I reach the Holly Branch road without having 
to go through Jefferson?" he said. 

Then Granny moved. "Open the desk," she said. "Lay out 



696 The Middle Ground 

a sheet of note-paper." I did. And I remember how I stood at 
one side of the desk and General Forrest at the other, and 
watched Granny's hand move the pen steady and not very 
slow and not very long across the paper because it never did 
take her very long to say anything, no matter what it was, 
whether she was talking it or writing it. Though I didn't see 
it then, but only later, when it hung framed under glass 
above Cousin Melisandre's and Cousin Philip's mantel: the 
fine steady slant of Granny's hand and General Forrest's 
sprawling signatures below it that looked itself a good deal 
like a charge of massed cavalry: 

Lieutenant P. S. Backhouse, Company D, Tennessee Cavalry, 
ivas this day raised to the honorary rank of Brevet Major 
General <& killed while engaging the enemy. Vice whom 
Philip St-Just Backus is hereby appointed Lieutenant, Com- 
pany D y Tennessee Cavalry. 

N. B. Forrest Genl 

I didn't see it then. General Forrest picked it up. "Now 
I've got to have a battle," he said. "Another sheet, son." I 
laid that one out on the desk. 

"A battle?" Granny said. 

"To give Johnston," he said. "Confound it, Miss Rosie, 
can't you understand either that I'm just a fallible mortal man 
trying to run a military command according to certain fixed 
and inviolable rules, no matter how foolish the business looks 
to superior outside folks?" 

"All right," Granny said. "You had one. I was looking at 
it." 

"So I did," General Forrest said. "Hah," he said. "The 
battle of Sartoris." 

"No," Granny said. "Not at my house." 

"They did all the shooting down at the creek," I said. 

"What creek?" he said. 



My Grandmother Millard 697 

So I told him. It ran through the pasture. Its name was 
Hurricane Creek but not even the white people called it hur- 
ricane except Granny. General Forrest didn't either when he 
sat down at the desk and wrote the report to General John- 
ston at Jackson: 

A unit of my command on detached duty engaged a body 
of the enemy & drove him from the field & dispersed him 
this day 28th ult. April 1862 at Harry kin Creek. With loss of 
one man. 

N. B. Forrest Genl 

I saw that. I watched him write it. Then he got up and 
folded the sheets into his pocket and was already going 
toward the table where his hat was. 

"Wait," Granny said. "Lay out another sheet," she said. 
"Come back here." 

General Forrest stopped and turned. "Another one?" 

"Yes!" Granny said. "A furlough, pass whatever you 
busy military establishments call them! So John Sartoris can 

come home long enough to " and she said it herself, she 

looked straight at me and even backed up and said some of it 
over as though to make sure there wouldn't be any mistake: 
" can come back home and give away that damn bride!" 

IV 

AND THAT was all. The day came and Granny waked Ringo 
and me before sunup and we ate what breakfast we had from 
two plates on the back steps. And we dug up the trunk and 
brought it into the house and polished the silver and Ringo 
and I brought dogwood and redbud branches from the pas- 
ture and Granny cut the flowers, all of them, cutting them 
herself with Cousin Melisandre and Philadelphia just carrying 
the baskets; so many of them until the house was so full that 



698 The Middle Ground 

Ringo and I would believe we smelled them even across the 
pasture each time we came up. Though of course we could, 
it was just the food the last ham from the smokehouse and 
the chickens and the flour which Granny had been saving 
and the last of the sugar which she had been saving along 
with the bottle of champagne for the day when the North 
surrendered which Louvinia had been cooking for two days 
now, to remind us each time we approached the house of 
what was going on and that the flowers were there. As if we 
could have forgotten about the food. And they dressed 
Cousin Melisandre and, Ringo in his new blue pants and I in 
my gray ones which were not so new, we stood in the late 
afternoon on the gallery Granny and Cousin Melisandre 
and Louvinia and Philadelphia and Ringo and I and watched 
them enter the gate. General Forrest was not one. Ringo and 
I had thought maybe he might be, if only to bring Cousin 
Philip. Then we thought that maybe, since Father was com- 
ing anyway, General Forrest would let Father bring him, 
with Cousin Philip maybe handcuffed to Father and the sol- 
dier with the bayonet following, or maybe still just hand- 
cuffed to the soldier until he and Cousin Melisandre were 
married and Father unlocked him. 

But General Forrest wasn't one, and Cousin Philip wasn't 
handcuffed to anybody and there was no bayonet and not 
even a soldier because these were all officers too. And we 
stood in the parlor while the home-made candles burnt in the 
last of sunset in the bright candlesticks which Philadelphia 
and Ringo and I had polished with the rest of the silver be- 
cause Granny and Louvinia were both busy cooking and 
even Cousin Melisandre polished a little of it although Lou- 
vinia could pick out the ones she polished without hardly 
looking and hand them to Philadelphia to polish again: 
Cousin Melisandre in the dress which hadn't needed to be 
altered for her at all because Mother wasn't much older than 



My Grandmother Millard 699 

Cousin Melisandre even when she died, and which would still 
button on Granny too just like it did the day she married in 
it, and the chaplain and Father and Cousin Philip and the four 
others in their gray and braid and sabres and Cousin Meli- 
sandre's face was all right now and Cousin Philip's was too 
because it just had the beautiful-girl look on it and none of 
us had ever seen him look any other way. Then we ate, and 
Ringo and I anyway had been waiting on that for three days 
and then we did it and then it was over too, fading just a little 
each day until the palate no longer remembered and only our 
mouths would run a little water as we would name the dishes 
aloud to one another, until even the water would run less 
and less and less and it would take something we just hoped 
to eat some day if they ever got done fighting, to make it run 
at all. 

And that was all. The last sound of wheel and hoof died 
away, Philadelphia came in from the parlor carrying the 
candlesticks and blowing out the candles as she came, and 
Louvinia set the kitchen clock on the table and gathered the 
last of soiled silver from supper into the dishpan and it might 
never have even been. "Well," Granny said. She didn't move, 
leaning her forearms on the table a little and we had never 
seen that before. She spoke to Ringo without turning her 
head: "Go call Joby and Lucius." And even when we 
brought the trunk in and set it against the wall and opened 
back the lid, she didn't move. She didn't even look at Lou- 
vinia either. "Put the clock in too/' she said. "I don't think 
we'll bother to time ourselves tonight." 



Golden Land 



IF HE had been thirty, he would not have needed the two 
aspirin tablets and the half glass of raw gin before he could 
bear the shower's needling on his body and steady his hands 
to shave. But then when he had been thirty neither could 
he have afforded to drink as much each evening as he now 
drank; certainly he would not have done it in the company 
of the men and the women in which, at forty-eight, he did 
each evening, even though knowing during the very final 
hours filled with the breaking of glass and the shrill cries of 
drunken women above the drums and saxophones the 
hours during which he carried a little better than his weight 
both in the amount of liquor consumed and in the number 
and sum of checks paid that six or eight hours later he 
would rouse from what had not been sleep at all but instead 
that dreamless stupefaction of alcohol out of which last 
night's turgid and licensed uproar would die, as though 
without any interval for rest or recuperation, into the fa- 
miliar shape of his bedroom the bed's foot silhouetted by 
the morning light which entered the bougainvillaea-bound 
windows beyond which his painful and almost unbearable 
eyes could see the view which might be called the monu- 
ment to almost twenty-five years of industry and desire, of 
shrewdness and luck and even fortitude the opposite can- 
yonflank dotted with the white villas half hidden in imported 

701 



7 02 The Middle Ground 

olive groves or friezed by the sombre spaced columns of 
cypress like the facades of eastern temples, whose owners 1 
names and faces and even voices were glib and familiar in 
back corners of the United States and of America and of the 
world where those of Einstein and Rousseau and Esculapius 
had never sounded. 

He didn't waken sick. He never wakened ill nor became 
ill from drinking, not only because he had drunk too long 
and too steadily for that, but because he was too tough even 
after the thirty soft years; he came from too tough stock 
on that day thirty-four years ago when at fourteen he had 
fled, on the brakebeam of a westbound freight, the little lost 
Nebraska town named for, permeated with, his father's 
history and existence a town to be sure, but only in the 
sense that any shadow is larger than the object which casts 
it. It was still frontier even as he remembered it at five and 
six the projected and increased shadow of a small outpost 
of sodroofed dugouts on the immense desolation of the 
plains where his father, Ira Ewing too, had been first to essay 
to wring wheat during the six days between those when, 
outdoors in spring and summer and in the fetid half dark of a 
snowbound dugout in the winter and fall, he preached. The 
second Ira Ewing had come a long way since then, from 
that barren and treeless village which he had fled by a night 
freight to where he now lay in a hundred-thousand-dollar 
house, waiting until he knew that he could rise and go to 
the bath and put the two aspirin tablets into his mouth. 
They his mother and father had tried to explain it to him 
something about fortitude, the will to endure. At fourteen 
he could neither answer them with logic and reason nor 
explain what he wanted: he could only flee. Nor was he 
fleeing his father's harshness and wrath. He was fleeing the 
scene itself the treeless immensity in the lost center of 
which he seemed to see the sum of his father's and mother's 



Golden Land 703 

dead youth and bartered lives as a tiny forlorn spot which 
nature permitted to green into brief and niggard wheat for 
a season's moment before blotting it all with the primal and 
invincible snow as though (not even promise, not even 
threat) in grim and almost playful augury of the final doom 
of all life. And it was not even this that he was fleeing be- 
cause he was not fleeing: it was only that absence, removal, 
was the only argument which fourteen knew how to employ 
against adults with any hope of success. He spent the next 
ten years half tramp half casual laborer as he drifted down 
the Pacific Coast to Los Angeles; at thirty he was married, 
to a Los Angeles girl, daughter of a carpenter, and father 
of a son and a daughter and with a foothold in real estate; 
at forty-eight he spent fifty thousand dollars a year, owning 
a business which he had built up unaided and preserved in- 
tact through nineteen-twenty-nine; he had given to his chil- 
dren luxuries and advantages which his own father not only 
could not have conceived in fact but would have condemned 
completely in theory as it proved, as the paper which the 
Filipino chauffeur, who each morning carried him into the 
house and undressed him and put him to bed, had removed 
from the pocket of his topcoat and laid on the reading table 
proved, with reason. On the death of his father twenty 
years ago he had returned to Nebraska, for the first time, 
and fetched his mother back with him, and she was now 
established in a home of her own only the less sumptuous 
because she refused (with a kind of abashed and thoughtful 
unshakability which he did not remark) anything finer or 
more elaborate. It was the house in which they had all lived 
at first, though he and his wife and children had moved 
within the year. Three years ago they had moved again, 
into the house where he now waked in a select residential 
section of Beverley Hills, but not once in the nineteen years 
had he failed to stop (not even during the last five, when to 



704 The Middle Ground 

move at all in the mornings required a terrific drain on that 
character or strength which the elder Ira had bequeathed 
him, which had enabled the other Ira to pause on the Ne- 
braska plain and dig a hole for his wife to bear children in 
while he planted wheat) on his way to the office (twenty 
miles out of his way to the office) and spend ten minutes 
with her. She lived in as complete physical ease and peace 
as he could devise. He had arranged her affairs so that she 
did not even need to bother with money, cash, in order to 
live; he had arranged credit for her with a neighboring 
market and butcher so that the Japanese gardener who came 
each day to water and tend the flowers could do her shop- 
ping for her; she never even saw the bills. And the only 
reason she had no servant was that even at seventy she ap- 
parently clung stubbornly to the old habit of doing her own 
cooking and housework. So it would seem that he had been 
right. Perhaps there were times when, lying in bed like this 
and waiting for the will to rise and take the aspirin and the 
gin (mornings perhaps following evenings when he had 
drunk more than ordinarily and when even the six or seven 
hours of oblivion had not been sufficient to enable him to 
distinguish between reality and illusion) something of the 
old strong harsh Campbellite blood which the elder Ira must 
have bequeathed him might have caused him to see or feel 
or imagine his father looking down from somewhere upon 
him, the prodigal, and what he had accomplished. If this 
were so, then surely the elder Ira, looking down for the last 
two mornings upon the two tabloid papers which the Fili- 
pino removed from his master's topcoat and laid on the read- 
ing table, might have taken advantage of that old blood and 
taken his revenge, not just for that afternoon thirty-four 
years ago but for the entire thirty-four years. 

When he gathered himself, his will, his body, at last and 
rose from the bed he struck the paper so that it fell to the 



Golden Land 705 

floor and lay open at his feet, but he did not look at it. He 
just stood so, tall, in silk pajamas, thin where his father had 
been gaunt with the years of hard work and unceasing strug- 
gle with the unpredictable and implacable earth (even now, 
despite the life which he had led, he had very little paunch) 
looking at nothing while at his feet the black headline flared 
above the row of five or six tabloid photographs from which 
his daughter alternately stared back or flaunted long pale 
shins: APRIL LALEAR BARES ORGY SECRETS. When 
he moved at last he stepped on the paper, walking on his 
bare feet into the bath; now it was his trembling and jerk- 
ing hands that he watched as he shook the two tablets onto 
the glass shelf and set the tumbler into the rack and un- 
stoppered the gin bottle and braced his knuckles against the 
wall in order to pour into the tumbler. But he did not look 
at the paper, not even when, shaved, he re-entered the bed- 
room and went to the bed beside which his slippers sat and 
shoved the paper aside with his foot in order to step into 
them. Perhaps, doubtless, he did not need to. The trial was 
but entering its third tabloidal day now, and so for two days 
his daughter's face had sprung out at him, hard, blonde and 
inscrutable, from every paper he opened; doubtless he had 
never forgot her while he slept even, that he had waked 
into thinking about remembering her as he had waked into 
the dying drunken uproar of the evening eight hours behind 
him without any interval between for rest or forgetting. 

Nevertheless as, dressed, in a burnt orange turtleneck 
sweater beneath his gray flannels, he descended the Spanish 
staircase, he was outwardly calm and possessed. The delicate 
iron balustrade and the marble steps coiled down to the tile- 
floored and barnlike living room beyond which he could 
hear his wife and son talking on the breakfast terrace. The 
son's name was Voyd. He and his wife had named the two 
children by what might have been called mutual contemptu- 



706 The Middle Ground 

ous armistice his wife called the boy Voyd, for what 
reason he never knew; he in his turn named the girl (the 
child whose woman's face had met him from every paper 
he touched for two days now beneath or above the name, 
April Lalear) Samantha, after his own mother. He could 
hear them talking the wife between whom and himself 
there had been nothing save civility, and not always a great 
deal of that, for ten years now; and the son who one after- 
noon two years ago had been delivered at the door drunk 
and insensible by a car whose occupants he did not see and, 
it devolving upon him to undress the son and put him to bed, 
whom he discovered to be wearing, in place of underclothes, 
a woman's brassiere and step-ins. A few minutes later, hear- 
ing the blows perhaps, Voyd's mother ran in and found her 
husband beating the still unconscious son with a series of 
towels which a servant was steeping in rotation in a basin of 
ice-water. He was beating the son hard, with grim and de- 
liberate fury. Whether he was trying to sober the son up or 
was merely beating him, possibly he himself did not know. 
His wife though jumped to the latter conclusion. In his 
raging disillusionment he tried to tell her about the woman's 
garments but she refused to listen; she assailed him in turn 
with virago fury. Since that day the son had contrived to see 
his father only in his mother's presence (which neither the 
son nor the mother found very difficult, by the way) and at 
which times the son treated his father with a blend of cring- 
ing spite and vindictive insolence half a cat's and half a 
woman's. 

He emerged onto the terrace; the voices ceased. The sun, 
strained by the vague high soft almost nebulous California 
haze, fell upon the terrace with a kind of treacherous un- 
brightness. The terrace, the sundrenched terra cotta tiles, 
butted into a rough and savage shear of canyonwall bare yet 
without dust, on or against which a solid mat of flowers 



Golden Land 707 

bloomed in fierce lush myriad-colored paradox as though in 
place of being rooted into and drawing from the soil they 
lived upon air alone and had been merely leaned intact 
against the sustenanceless lavawall by someone who would 
later return and take them away. The son, Voyd, appar- 
ently naked save for a pair of straw-colored shorts, his body 
brown with sun and scented faintly by the depilatory which 
he used on arms, chest and legs, lay in a wicker chair, his 
feet in straw beach shoes, an open newspaper across his 
brown legs. The paper was the highest class one of the city, 
yet there was a black headline across half of it too, and even 
without pausing, without even being aware that he had 
looked, Ira saw there too the name which he recognized. 
He went on to his place; the Filipino who put him to bed 
each night, in a white service jacket now, drew his chair. 
Beside the glass of orange juice and the waiting cup lay a 
neat pile of mail topped by a telegram. He sat down and 
took up the telegram; he had not glanced at his wife until 
she spoke: 

"Mrs. Ewing telephoned. She says for you to stop in 
there on your way to town." 

He stopped; his hands opening the telegram stopped. Still 
blinking a little against the sun he looked at the face opposite 
him across the table the smooth dead makeup, the thin 
lips and the thin nostrils and the pale blue unforgiving eyes, 
the meticulous platinum hair which looked as though it had 
been transferred to her skull with a brush from a book of 
silver leaf such as window painters use. "What?" he said. 
"Telephoned? Here?" 

"Why not? Have I ever objected to any of your women 
telephoning you here?" 

The unopened telegram crumpled suddenly in his hand. 
"You know what I mean," he said harshly. "She never tele- 
phoned me in her life. She don't have to. Not that message. 



708 The Middle Ground 

When have I ever failed to go by there on my way to 
town? " 

"How do I know?" she said. "Or are you the same model 
son you have been a husband and seem to be a father?" Her 
voice was not shrill yet, nor even very loud, and none could 
have told how fast her breathing was because she sat so still, 
rigid beneath the impeccable and unbelievable hair, looking 
at him with that pale and outraged unforgiveness. They 
both looked at each other across the luxurious table the 
two people who at one time twenty years ago would have 
turned as immediately and naturally and unthinkingly to 
one another in trouble, who even ten years ago might have 
done so. 

"You know what I mean," he said, harshly again, holding 
himself too against the trembling which he doubtless be- 
lieved was from last night's drinking, from the spent alco- 
hol. "She don't read papers. She never even sees one. Did 
you send it to her?" 

"I? "she said. "Send what?" 

"Damnation!" he cried. "A paper! Did you send it to her? 
Don't lie to me." 

"What if I did?" she cried. "Who is she, that she must 
not know about it? Who is she, that you should shield her 
from knowing it? Did you make any effort to keep me from 
knowing it? Did you make any effort to keep it from hap- 
pening? Why didn't you think about that all those years 
while you were too drunk, too besotted with drink, to know 
or notice or care what Samantha was " 

"Miss April Lalear of the cinema, if you please," Voyd 
said. They paid no attention to him; they glared at one 
another across the table. 

"Ah," he said, quiet and rigid, his lips scarcely moving. 
"So I am to blame for this too, am I? I made my daughter a 
bitch, did I? Maybe you will tell me next that I made my 
son a f " 



Golden Land 709 

"Stop!" she cried. She was panting now; they glared at 
one another across the suave table, across the five feet of 
irrevocable division. 

"Now, now/ 7 Voyd said. "Don't interfere with the girl's 
career. After all these years, when at last she seems to have 
found a part that she can " He ceased; his father had 
turned and was looking at him. Voyd lay in his chair, look- 
ing at his father with that veiled insolence that was almost 
feminine. Suddenly it became completely feminine; with a 
muffled halfscream he swung his legs out to spring up and 
flee but it was too late; Ira stood above him, gripping him 
not by the throat but by the face with one hand, so that 
Voyd's mouth puckered and slobbered in his father's hard, 
shaking hand. Then the mother sprang forward and tried to 
break Ira's grip but he flung her away and then caught and 
held her, struggling too, with the other hand when she 
sprang in again. 

"Go on," he said. "Say it." But Voyd could say nothing 
because of his father's hand gripping his jaws open, or more 
than likely because of terror. His body was free of the chair 
now, writhing and thrashing while he made his slobbering, 
moaning sound of terror while his father held him with one 
hand and held his screaming mother with the other one. 
Then Ira flung Voyd free, onto the terrace; Voyd rolled 
once and came onto his feet, crouching, retreating toward 
the French windows with one arm flung up before his face 
while he cursed his father. Then he was gone. Ira faced his 
wife, holding her quiet too at last, panting too, the skillful 
map of makeup standing into relief now like a paper mask 
trimmed smoothly and pasted onto her skull. He released 
her. 

"You sot," she said. "You drunken sot. And yet you 
wonder why your children " 

"Yes," he said quietly. "All right. That's not the question. 
That's all done. The question is, what to do about it. My 



The Middle Ground 

father would have known. He did it once." He spoke in a 
dry light pleasant voice: so much so that she stood, panting 
still but quiet, watching him. "I remember. I was about ten. 
We had rats in the barn. We tried everything. Terriers. 
Poison. Then one day father said, 'Come. 7 We went to the 
barn and stopped all the cracks, the holes. Then we set fire 
to it. What do you think of that?" Then she was gone too. 
He stood for a moment, blinking a little, his eyeballs beating 
faintly and steadily in his skull with the impact of the soft 
unchanging sunlight, the fierce innocent mass of the flowers. 
"Philip!" he called. The Filipino appeared, brownfaced, im- 
passive, with a pot of hot coffee, and set it beside the empty 
cup and the icebedded glass of orange juice. "Get me a 
drink," Ira said. The Filipino glanced at him, then he be- 
came buj5y at the table, shifting the cup and setting the pot 
down and shifting the cup again while Ira watched him. 
"Did you hear me?" Ira said. The Filipino stood erect and 
looked at him. 

"You told me not to give it to you until you had your 
orange juice and coffee." 

"Will you or won't you get me a drink?" Ira shouted. 

"Very good, sir," the Filipino said. He went out. Ira 
looked after him; this had happened before: he knew well 
that the brandy would not appear until he had finished the 
orange juice and the coffee, though just where the Filipino 
lurked to watch him he never knew. He sat again and opened 
the crumpled telegram and read it, the glass of orange juice 
in the other hand. It was from his secretary: MADE SETUP 
BEFORE I BROKE STORY LAST NIGHT STOP 
THIRTY PERCENT FRONT PAGE STOP MADE 
APPOINTMENT FOR YOU COURTHOUSE THIS 
P.M. STOP WILL YOU COME TO OFFICE OR CALL 
ME. He read the telegram again, the glass of orange juice 
still poised. Then he put both down and rose and went and 



Golden Land 7 1 1 

lifted the paper from the terrace where Voyd had flung it, 
and read the half headline: LALEAR WOMAN DAUGH- 
TER OF PROMINENT LOCAL FAMILY. Admits Real 
Name Is Samantha Ewing, Daughter of Ira Ewing, Local 
Realtor. He read it quietly; he said quietly, aloud: 

"It was that Jap that showed her the paper. It was that 
damned gardener." He returned to the table. After a while 
the Filipino came, with the brandy-and-soda, and wearing 
now a jacket of bright imitation tweed, telling him that the 
car was ready. 

II 

His MOTHER lived in Glendale; it was the house which he 
had taken when he married and later bought, in which his 
son and daughter had been born a bungalow in a cul-de- 
sac of pepper trees and flowering shrubs and vines which the 
Japanese tended, backed into a barren foothill combed and 
curried into a cypress-and-marble cemetery dramatic as a 
stage set and topped by an electric sign in red bulbs which, 
in the San Fernando valley fog, glared in broad sourceless 
ruby as though just beyond the crest lay not heaven but 
hell. The length of his sports model car in which the Filipino 
sat reading a paper dwarfed it. But she would have no other, 
just as she would have neither servant, car, nor telephone 
a gaunt spare slightly stooped woman upon whom even 
California and ease had put no flesh, sitting in one of the 
chairs which she had insisted on bringing all the way from 
Nebraska. At first she had been content to allow the Ne- 
braska furniture to remain in storage, since it had not been 
needed (when Ira moved his wife and family out of the 
house and into the second one, the intermediate one, they 
had bought new furniture too, leaving the first house fur- 
nished complete for his mother) but one day, he could not 



7 1 2 The Middle Ground 

recall just when, he discovered that she had taken the one 
chair out of storage and was using it in the house. Later, 
after he began to sense that quality of unrest in her, he had 
suggested that she let him clear the house of its present 
furniture and take all of hers out of storage but she declined, 
apparently preferring or desiring to leave the Nebraska 
furniture where it was. Sitting so, a knitted shawl about 
her shoulders, she looked less like she lived in or belonged 
to the house, the room, than the son with his beach burn 
and his faintly theatrical gray temples and his bright ex- 
pensive suavely antiphonal garments did. She had changed 
hardly at all in the thirty-four years; she and the older Ira 
Ewing too, as the son remembered him, who, dead, had 
suffered as little of alteration as while he had been alive. As 
the sod Nebraska outpost had grown into a village and then 
into a town, his father's aura alone had increased, growing 
into the proportions of a giant who at some irrevocable yet 
recent time had engaged barehanded in some titanic struggle 
with the pitiless earth and endured and in a sense conquered 
it too, like the town, a shadow out of all proportion to the 
gaunt gnarled figure of the actual man. And the actual 
woman too as the son remembered them back in that time. 
Two people who drank air and who required to eat and 
sleep as he did and who had brought him into the world, 
yet were strangers as though of another race, who stood side 
by side in an irrevocable loneliness as though strayed from 
another planet, not as husband and wife but as blood brother 
and sister, even twins, of the same travail because they had 
gained a strange peace through fortitude and the will and 
strength to endure. 

"Tell me again what it is," she said. "I'll try to under- 
stand." 

"So it was Kazimura that showed you the damned paper," 
he said. She didn't answer this; she was not looking at him. 



Golden Land 7 1 3 

"You tell me she has been in the pictures before, for two 
years. That that was why she had to change her name, that 
they all have to change their names." 

"Yes. They call them extra parts. For about two years, 
God knows why." 

"And then you tell me that this that all this was so she 
could get into the pictures " 

He started to speak, then he caught himself back out of 
some quick impatience, some impatience perhaps of grief or 
despair or at least rage, holding his voice, his tone, quiet: 
"I said that that was one possible reason. All I know is that 
the, man has something to do with pictures, giving out the 
parts. And that the police caught him and Samantha and 
the other girl in an apartment with the doors all locked and 
that Samantha and the other woman were naked. They say 
that he was naked too and he says he was not. He says in 
the trial that he was framed tricked; that they were trying 
to blackmail him into giving them parts in a picture; that 
they fooled him into coming there and arranged for the 
police to break in just after they had taken off their clothes; 
that one of them made a signal from the window. Maybe 
so. Or maybe they were all just having a good time and 
were innocently caught." Unmoving, rigid, his face broke, 
wrung with faint bitter smiling as though with indomitable 
and impassive suffering, or maybe just smiling, just rage. Still 
his mother did not look at him. 

"But you told me she was already in the pictures. That 
that was why she had to change her " 

"I said, extra parts," he said. He had to catch himself 
again, out of his jangled and outraged nerves, back from the 
fierce fury of the impatience. "Can't you understand that 
you don't get into the pictures just by changing your name? 
and that you don't even stay there when you get in? that 
you can't even stay there by being female? that they come 



714 The Middle Ground 

here in droves on every train girls younger and prettier 
than Samantha and who will do anything to get into the 
pictures? So will she, apparently; but who know or are 
willing to learn to do more things than even she seems to 
have thought of? But let's don't talk about it. She has made 
her bed; all I can do is to help her up: I can't wash the 
sheets. Nobody can. I must go, anyway; I'm late." He rose, 
looking down at her. "They said you telephoned me this 
morning. Is this what it was?" 

"No," she said. Now she looked up at him; now her 
gnarled hands began to pick faintly at one another. "You 
offered me a servant once." 

"Yes. I thought fifteen years ago that you ought to have 
one. Have you changed your mind? Do you want me to " 

Now she stopped looking at him again, though her hands 
did not cease. "That was fifteen years ago. It would have 
cost at least five hundred dollars a year. That would be " 

He laughed, short and harsh. "I'd like to see the Los 
Angeles servant you could get for five hundred dollars a 
year. But what " He stopped laughing, looking down at 
her. 

"That would be at least five thousand dollars," she said. 

He looked down at her. After a while he said, "Are you 
asking me again for money?" She didn't answer nor move, 
her hands picking slowly and quietly at one another. "Ah," 
he said. "You want to go away. You want to run from it. 
So do I!" he cried, before he could catch himself this time; 
"so do I! But you did not choose me when you elected a 
child; neither did I choose my two. But I shall have to bear 
them and you will have to bear all of us. There is no help 
for it." He caught himself now, panting, quieting himself by 
will as when he would rise from bed, though his voice was 
still harsh: "Where would you go? Where would you hide 
from it?" 



Golden Land 7 1 5 

"Home," she said. 

"Home?" he repeated; he repeated in a kind of amaze- 
ment: "home?" before he understood. "You would go back 
there? with those winters, that snow and all? Why, you 
wouldn't live to see the first Christmas: don't you know 
that?" She didn't move nor look up at him. "Nonsense," he 
said. "This will blow over. In a month there will be two 
others and nobody except us will even remember it. And 
you don't need money. You have been asking me for money 
for years, but you don't need it. I had to worry about 
money so much at one time myself that I swore that the 
least I could do was to arrange your affairs so you would 
never even have to look at the stuff. I must go; there is 
something at the office today. I'll see you tomorrow." 

It was already one o'clock. "Courthouse," he told the 
Filipino, settling back into the car. "My God, I want a 
drink." He rode with his eyes closed against the sun; the 
secretary had already sprung onto the runningboard before 
he realized that they had reached the courthouse. The secre- 
tary, bareheaded too, wore a jacket of authentic tweed; his 
turtleneck sweater was dead black, his hair was black too, 
varnished smooth to his skull; he spread before Ira a dummy 
newspaper page laid out to embrace the blank space for the 
photograph beneath the caption: APRIL LALEAR'S 
FATHER. Beneath the space was the legend: IRA 
EWING, PRESIDENT OF THE EWING REALTY 
CO. , WILSHIRE BOULEVARD, BEVERLY HILLS. 

"Is thirty percent all you could get?" Ira said. The secre- 
tary was young; he glared at Ira for an instant in vague im- 
patient fury. 

"Jesus, thirty percent is thirty percent. They are going to 
print a thousand extra copies and use our mailing list. It will 
be spread all up and down the Coast and as far East as Reno. 
What do you want? We can't expect them to put under 



7 1 6 The Middle Ground 

your picture, 'Turn to page fourteen for halfpage ad/ can 
we?" Ira sat again with his eyes closed, waiting for his head 
to stop. 

"All right," he said. "Are they ready now?" 

"All set. You will have to go inside. They insisted it be 
inside, so everybody that sees it will know it is the court- 
house." 

"All right," Ira said. He got out; with his eyes half closed 
and the secretary at his elbow he mounted the steps and 
entered the courthouse. The reporter and the photographer 
were waiting but he did not see them yet; he was aware 
only of being enclosed in a gaping crowd which he knew 
would be mostly women, hearing the secretary and a police- 
man clearing the way in the corridor outside the courtroom 
door. 

"This is O.K.," the secretary said. Ira stopped; the dark- 
ness was easier on his eyes though he did not open them yet; 
he just stood, hearing the secretary and the policeman herd- 
ing the women, the faces, back; someone took him by the 
arm and turned him; he stood obediently; the magnesium 
flashed and glared, striking against his painful eyeballs like 
blows; he had a vision of wan faces craned to look at him 
from either side of a narrow human lane; with his eyes shut 
tight now he turned, blundering until the reporter in charge 
spoke to him: 

"Just a minute, chief. We better get another one just in 
case." This time his eyes were tightly closed; the magnesium 
flashed, washed over them; in the thin acrid smell of it he 
turned and with the secretary again at his elbow he moved 
blindly back and into the sunlight and into his car. He gave 
no order this time, he just said, "Get me a drink." He rode 
with his eyes closed again while the car cleared the down- 
town traffic and then began to move quiet, powerful and 
fast under him; he rode so for a long while before he felt 



Golden Land 7 1 7 

the car swing into the palmbordered drive, slowing. It 
stopped; the doorman opened the door for him, speaking to 
him by name. The elevator boy called him by name too, 
stopping at the right floor without direction; he followed 
the corridor and knocked at a door and was fumbling for 
the key when the door opened upon a woman in a bathing 
suit beneath a loose beach cloak a woman with treated 
hair also and brown eyes, who swung the door back for him 
to enter and then to behind him, looking at him with the 
quick bright faint serene smiling which only a woman near- 
ing forty can give to a man to whom she is not married and 
from whom she has had no secrets physical and few mental 
over a long time of pleasant and absolute intimacy. She had 
been married though and divorced; she had a child, a daugh- 
ter of fourteen, whom he was now keeping in boarding 
school. He looked at her, blinking, as she closed the door. 

"You saw the papers," he said. She kissed him, not sud- 
denly, without heat, in a continuation of the movement 
which closed the door, with a sort of warm envelopment; 
suddenly he cried, "I can't understand it! After all the ad- 
vantages that . . . after all I tried to do for them " 

"Hush," she said. "Hush, now. Get into your trunks; I'll 
have a drink ready for you when you have changed. Will 
you eat some lunch if I have it sent up?" 

"No. I don't want any lunch. after all I have tried to 
give-" 

"Hush, now. Get into your trunks while I fix you a drink. 
It's going to be swell at the beach." In the bedroom his 
bathing trunks and robe were laid out on the bed. He 
changed, hanging his suit in the closet where her clothes 
hung, where there hung already another suit of his and 
clothes for the evening. When he returned to the sitting 
room she had fixed the drink for him; she held the match 
to his cigarette and watched him sit down and take up the 



7 1 8 The Middle Ground 

glass, watching him still with that serene impersonal smiling. 
Now he watched her slip off the cape and kneel at the 
cellarette, filling a silver flask, in the bathing costume of the 
moment, such as ten thousand wax female dummies wore in 
ten thousand shop windows that summer, such as a hundred 
thousand young girls wore on California beaches; he looked 
at her, kneeling back, buttocks and flanks trim enough, 
even firm enough (so firm in fact as to be a little on the 
muscular side, what with unremitting and perhaps even 
rigorous care) but still those of forty. But I don't want a 
young girl, he thought. Would to God that all young girls, 
all young female flesh, were removed, blasted even, from 
the earth. He finished the drink before she had filled the 
flask. 

"I want another one," he said. 

"All right," she said. "As soon as we get to the beach." 

"No. Now." 

"Let's go on to the beach first. It's almost three o'clock. 
Won't that be better?" 

"Just so you are not trying to tell me I can't have another 
drink now." 

"Of course not," she said, slipping the flask into the cape's 
pocket and looking at him again with that warm, faint, in- 
scrutable smiling. "I just want to have a dip before the water 
gets too cold." They went down to the car; the Filipino 
knew this too: he held the door for her to slip under the 
wheel, then he got himself into the back. The car moved 
on; she drove well. "Why not lean back and shut your 
eyes," she told Ira, "and rest until we get to the beach? 
Then we will have a dip and a drink." 

"I don't want to rest," he said. "I'm all right." But he did 
close his eyes again and again the car ran powerful, smooth, 
and fast beneath him, performing its afternoon's jaunt over 
the incredible distances of which the city was composed; 



Golden Land 719 

from time to time, had he looked, he could have seen the 
city in the bright soft vague hazy sunlight, random, scat- 
tered about the arid earth like so many gay scraps of paper 
blown without order, with its curious air of being rootless 
of houses bright beautiful and gay, without basements or 
foundations, lightly attached to a few inches of light pene- 
trable earth, lighter even than dust and laid lightly in turn 
upon the profound and primeval lava, which one good hard 
rain would wash forever from the sight and memory of man 
as a firehose flushes down a gutter that city of almost in- 
calculable wealth whose queerly appropriate fate it is to be 
erected upon a few spools of a substance whose value is 
computed in billions and which may be completely de- 
stroyed in that second's instant of a careless match between 
the moment of striking and the moment when the striker 
might have sprung and stamped it out. 

"You saw your mother today," she said. "Has she " 
"Yes." He didn't open his eyes. "That damned Jap gave it 
to her. She asked me for money again. I found out what 
she wants with it. She wants to run, to go back to Nebraska. 
I told her, so did I. ... If she went back there, she would 
not live until Christmas. The first month of winter would 
kill her. Maybe it wouldn't even take winter to do it." 

She still drove, she still watched the road, yet somehow 
she had contrived to become completely immobile. "So 
Jiat's what it is," she said. 

He did not open his eyes. "What what is?" 
"The reason she has been after you all this time to give 
her money, cash. Why, even when you won't do it, every 
now and then she asks you again." 

"What what . . ." He opened his eyes, looking at her pro- 
file; he sat up suddenly. "You mean, she's been wanting to 
go back there all the time? That all these years she has been 



720 The Middle Ground 

asking me for money, that that was what she wanted with 
it?" 

She glanced at him swiftly, then back to the road. "What 
else can it be? What else could she use money for?" 

"Back there?" he said. "To those winters, that town, that 
way of living, where she's bound to know that the first 
winter would . . . You'd almost think she wanted to die, 
wouldn't you?" 

"Hush," she said quickly. "Shhhhh. Don't say that. Don't 
say that about anybody." Already they could smell the sea; 
now they swung down toward it; the bright salt wind blew 
upon them, with the long-spaced sound of the rollers; now 
they could see it the dark blue of water creaming into the 
blanched curve of beach dotted with bathers. "We won't 
go through the club," she said. "I'll park in here and we can 
go straight to the water." They left the Filipino in the car 
and descended to the beach. It was already crowded, bright 
and gay with movement. She chose a vacant space and 
spread her cape. 

"Now that drink," he said. 

"Have your dip first," she said. He looked at her. Then 
he slipped his robe off slowly; she took it and spread it 
beside her own; he looked down at her. 

"Which is it? Will you always be too clever for me, or 
is it that every time I will always believe you again?" 

She looked at him, bright, warm, fond and inscrutable. 
"Maybe both. Maybe neither. Have your dip; I will have the 
flask and a cigarette ready when you come out." When he 
came back from the water, wet, panting, his heart a little too 
hard and fast, she had the towel ready, and she lit the ciga- 
rette and uncapped the flask as he lay on the spread robes. 
She lay too, lifted to one elbow, smiling down at him, 
smoothing the water from his hair with the towel while he 
panted, waiting for his heart to slow and quiet. Steadily be- 



Golden Land 721 

tween them and the water, and as far up and down the 
beach as they could see, the bathers passed young people, 
young men in trunks, and young girls in little more, with 
bronzed, unselfconscious bodies. Lying so, they seemed to 
him to walk along the rim of the world as though they and 
their kind alone inhabited it, and he with his forty-eight 
years were the forgotten last survivor of another race and 
kind, and they in turn precursors of a new race not yet seen 
on the earth: of men and women without age, beautiful as 
gods and goddesses, and with the minds of infants. He turned 
quickly and looked at the woman beside him at the quiet 
face, the wise, smiling eyes, the grained skin and temples, the 
hairroots showing where the dye had grown out, the legs 
veined faint and blue and myriad beneath the skin. "You 
look better than any of them!" he cried. "You look better 
to me than any of them!" 

Ill 

THE JAPANESE GARDENER, with his hat on, stood tapping on 
the glass and beckoning and grimacing until old Mrs. Ewing 
went out to him. He had the afternoon's paper with its black 
headline: LALEAR WOMAN CREATES SCENE IN 
COURTROOM. "You take," the Japanese said. "Read 
while I catch water." But she declined; she just stood in the 
soft halcyon sunlight, surrounded by the myriad and almost 
fierce blooming of flowers, and looked quietly at the head- 
line without even taking the paper, and that was all. 

"I guess I won't look at the paper today," she said. "Thank 
you just the same." She returned to the living room. Save 
for the chair, it was exactly as it had been when she first 
saw it that day when her son brought her into it and told 
her that it was now her home and that her daughter-in-law 
and her grandchildren were now her family. It had changed 



722 The Middle Ground 

very little, and that which had altered was the part which 
her son knew nothing about, and that too had changed not 
at all in so long that she could not even remember now 
when she had added the last coin to the hoard. This was in 
a china vase on the mantel. She knew what was in it to the 
penny; nevertheless, she took it down and sat in the chair 
which she had brought all the way from Nebraska and 
emptied the coins and the worn timetable into her lap. The 
timetable was folded back at the page on which she had 
folded it the day she walked downtown to the ticket office 
and got it fifteen years ago, though that was so long ago 
now that the pencil circle about the name of the nearest 
junction point to Ewing, Nebraska, had faded away. But 
she did not need that either; she knew the distance to the 
exact half mile, just as she knew the fare to the penny, and 
back in the early twenties when the railroads began to be- 
come worried and passenger fares began to drop, no broker 
ever watched the grain and utilities market any closer than 
she watched the railroad advertisements and quotations. 
Then at last the fares became stabilized with the fare back 
to Ewing thirteen dollars more than she had been able to 
save, and at a time when her source of income had ceased. 
This was the two grandchildren. When she entered the 
house that day twenty years ago and looked at the two 
babies for the first time, it was with diffidence and eagerness 
both. She would be dependent for the rest of her life, but 
she would give something in return for it. It was not that 
she would attempt to make another Ira and Samantha 
Ewing of them; she had made that mistake with her own 
son and had driven him from home. She was wiser now; 
she saw now that it was not the repetition of hardship: she 
would merely take what had been of value in hers and her 
husband's hard lives that which they had learned through 
hardship and endurance of honor and courage and pride 



Golden Land 723 

and transmit it to the children without their having to suffer 
the hardship at all, the travail and the despairs. She had ex- 
pected that there would be some friction between her and 
the young daughter-in-law, but she had believed that her 
son, the actual Ewing, would be her ally; she had even 
reconciled herself after a year to waiting, since the children 
were still but babies; she was not alarmed, since they were 
Ewings too: after she had looked that first searching time at 
the two puttysoft little faces feature by feature, she had 
said it was because they were babies yet and so looked like 
no one. So she was content to bide and wait; she did not 
even know that her son was planning to move until he told 
her that the other house was bought and that the present 
one was to be hers until she died. She watched them go; she 
said nothing; it was not to begin then. It did not begin for 
five years, during which she watched her son making money 
faster and faster and easier and easier, gaining with apparent 
contemptible and contemptuous ease that substance for 
which in niggard amounts her husband had striven while 
still clinging with undeviating incorruptibility to honor and 
dignity and pride, and spending it, squandering it, in the 
same way. By that time she had given up the son and she 
had long since learned that she and her daughter-in-law 
were irrevocable and implacable moral enemies. It was in 
the fifth year. One day in her son's home she saw the two 
children take money from their mother's purse lying on a 
table. The mother did not even know how much she had in 
the purse; when the grandmother told her about it she be- 
came angry and dared the older woman to put it to the test. 
The grandmother accused the children, who denied the 
whole affair with perfectly straight faces. That was the 
actual break between herself and her son's family; after that 
she saw the two children only when the son would bring 
them with him occasionally on his unfailing daily visits. She 



724 The Middle Ground 

had a few broken dollars which she had brought from Ne- 
braska and had kept intact for five years, since she had no 
need for money here; one day she planted one of the coins 
while the children were there, and when she went back to 
look, it was gone too. The next morning she tried to talk 
to her son about the children, remembering her experience 
with the daughter-in-law and approaching the matter in- 
directly, speaking generally of money. "Yes," the son said. 
"I'm making money. I'm making it fast while I can. I'm 
going to make a lot of it. I'm going to give my children 
luxuries and advantages that my father never dreamed a 
child might have." 

"That's it," she said. "You make money too easy. This 
whole country is too easy for us Ewings. It may be all right 
for them that have been born here for generations; I don't 
know about that. But not for us." 

"But these children were born here." 

"Just one generation. The generation before that they 
were born in a sodroofed dugout on the Nebraska wheat 
frontier. And the one before that in a log house in Missouri. 
And the one before that in a Kentucky blockhouse with 
Indians around it. This world has never been easy for 
Ewings. Maybe the Lord never intended it to be." 

"But it is from now on," he said; he spoke with a kind 
of triumph. "For you and me too. But mostly for them." 

And that was all. When he was gone she sat quietly in 
the single Nebraska chair which she had taken out of stor- 
age the first chair which the older Ira Ewing had bought 
for her after he built a house and in which she had rocked 
the younger Ira to sleep before he could walk, while the 
older Ira himself sat in the chair which he had made out of 
a flour barrel, grim, quiet and incorruptible, taking his 
earned twilight ease between a day and a day telling her- 
self quietly that that was all. Her next move was curiously 



Golden Land 725 

direct; there was something in it of the actual pioneer's op- 
portunism, of taking immediate and cold advantage of 
Spartan circumstance; it was as though for the first time in 
her life she was able to use something, anything, which she 
had gained by bartering her youth and strong maturity 
against the Nebraska immensity, and this not in order to live 
further but in order to die; apparently she saw neither para- 
dox in it nor dishonesty. She began to make candy and cake 
of the materials which her son bought for her on credit, 
and to sell them to the two grandchildren for the coins which 
their father gave them or which they perhaps purloined also 
from their mother's purse, hiding the coins in the vase with 
the timetable, watching the niggard hoard grow. But after 
a few years the children outgrew candy and cake, and then 
she had watched railroad fares go down and down and then 
stop thirteen dollars away. But she did not give up, even 
then. Her son had tried to give her a servant years ago and 
she had refused; she believed that when the time came, the 
right moment, he would not refuse to give her at least 
thirteen dollars of the money which she had saved him. 
Then this had failed. "Maybe it wasn't the right time," she 
thought. "Maybe I tried it too quick. I was surprised into 
it," she told herself, looking down at the heap of small coins 
in her lap. "Or maybe he was surprised into saying No. 
Maybe when he has had time . . ." She roused; she put the 
coins back into the vase and set it on the mantel again, look- 
ing at the clock as she did so. It was just four, two hours 
yet until time to start supper. The sun was high; she could 
see the water from the sprinkler flashing and glinting in it 
as she went to the window. It was still high, still afternoon; 
the mountains stood serene and drab against it; the city, the 
land, lay sprawled and myriad beneath it the land, the 
earth which spawned a thousand new faiths, nostrums and 
cures each year but no disease to even disprove them on 



726 The Middle Ground 

beneath the golden days unmarred by rain or weather, the 

changeless monotonous beautiful days without end countless 

tut of the halcyon past and endless into the halcyon future. 

"I will stay here and live forever," she said to herself. 



There Was a Queen 



ELNORA entered the back yard, coming up from her cabin. 
In the long afternoon the huge, square house, the premises, 
lay somnolent, peaceful, as they had lain for almost a hundred 
years, since John Sartoris had come from Carolina and built 
it. And he had died in it and his son Bayard had died in it, 
and Bayard's son John and John's son Bayard in turn had 
been buried from it even though the last Bayard didn't die 
there. 

So the quiet was now the quiet of womenfolks. As Elnora 
crossed the back yard toward the kitchen door she remem- 
bered how ten years ago at this hour old Bayard, who was 
her half-brother (though possibly but not probably neither 
of them knew it, including Bayard's father) , would be tramp- 
ing up and down the back porch, shouting stableward for the 
Negro men and for his saddle mare. But he was dead now, 
and his grandson Bayard was also dead at twenty-six years 
old, and the Negro men were gone: Simon, Elnora's mother's 
husband, in the graveyard too, and Caspey, Elnora's husband, 
in the penitentiary for stealing, and Joby, her son, gone to 
Memphis to wear fine clothes on Beale Street. So there were 
left in the house only the first John Sartoris' sister, Virginia, 
who was ninety years old and who lived in a wheel chair 
beside a window above the flower garden, and Narcissa, 
young Bayard's widow, and her son. Virginia Du Pre had 

727 



728 The Middle Ground 

come out to Mississippi in '69, the last of the Carolina family, 
bringing with her the clothes in which she stood and a basket 
containing a few panes of colored glass from a Carolina win- 
dow and a few flower cuttings and two bottles of port. She 
had seen her brother die and then her nephew and then her 
great-nephew and then her two great-great-nephews, and 
now she lived in the unmanned house with her great-great- 
nephew's wife and his son, Benbow, whom she persisted in 
calling Johnny after his uncle, who was killed in France. And 
for Negroes there were Elnora who cooked, and her son Isom 
who tended the grounds, and her daughter Saddic who slept 
on a cot beside Virginia Du Pre's bed and tended her as 
though she were a baby. 

But that was all right. "I can take care of her," Elnora 
thought, crossing the back yard. "I don't need no help," she 
said aloud, to no one a tall, coffee-colored woman with a 
small, high, fine head. "Because it's a Sartoris job. Gunnel 
knowed that when he died and tole me to take care of her. 
Tole me. Not no outsiders from town." She was thinking of 
what had caused her to come up to the house an hour before 
it was necessary. This was that, while busy in her cabin, she 
had seen Narcissa, young Bayard's wife, and the ten-year-old 
boy going down across the pasture in the middle of the after- 
noon. She had come to her door and watched them the boy 
and the big young woman in white going through the hot 
afternoon, down across the pasture toward the creek. She 
had not wondered where they were going, nor why, as a 
white woman would have wondered. But she was half black, 
and she just watched the white woman with that expression 
of quiet and grave contempt with which she contemplated 
or listened to the orders of the wife of the house's heir even 
while he was alive. Just as she had listened two days ago when 
Narcissa had informed her that she was going to Memphis 
for a day or so and that Elnora would have to take care of 



There Was a Queen 729 

the old aunt alone. "Like I ain't always done it," Elnora 
thought. "It's little you done for anybody since you come 
out here. We never needed you. Don't you never think it." 
But she didn't say this. She just thought it, and she helped 
Narcissa prepare for the trip and watched the carriage roll 
away toward town and the station without comment. "And 
you needn't to come back," she thought, watching the car- 
riage disappear. But this morning Narcissa had returned, 
without offering to explain the sudden journey or the sudden 
return, and in the early afternoon Elnora from her cabin door 
had watched the woman and the boy go down across the 
pasture in the hot June sunlight. 

"Well, it's her business where she going," Elnora said 
aloud, mounting the kitchen steps. "Same as it her business 
how come she went off to Memphis, leaving Miss Jenny 
setting yonder in her chair without nobody but niggers to 
look after her," she added, aloud still, with brooding incon- 
sistency. "I ain't surprised she went. I just surprised she come 
back. No. I ain't even that. She ain't going to leave this place, 
now she done got in here." Then she said quietly, aloud, 
without rancor, without heat: "Trash. Town trash." 

She entered the kitchen. Her daughter Saddie sat at the 
table, eating from a dish of cold turnip greens and looking at 
a thumbed and soiled fashion magazine. "What you doing 
back here?" she said. "Why ain't you up yonder where you 
can hear Miss Jenny if she call you?" 

"Miss Jenny ain't need nothing," Saddie said. "She setting 
there by the window." 

"Where did Miss Narcissa go?" 

"I don't know'm," Saddie said. "Her and Bory went off 
somewhere. Ain't come back yet." 

Elnora grunted. Her shoes were not laced, and she stepped 
out of them in two motions and left the kitchen and went 
up the quiet, high-ceiled hall filled with scent from the gar- 



730 The Middle Ground 

den and with the drowsing and myriad sounds of the June 
afternoon, to the open library door. Beside the window (the 
sash was raised now, with its narrow border of colored Caro- 
lina glass which in the winter framed her head and bust like 
a hung portrait) an old woman sat in a wheel chair. She sat 
erect; a thin, upright woman with a delicate nose and hair 
the color of a whitewashed wall. About her shoulders lay a 
shawl of white wool, no whiter than her hair against her 
black dress. She was looking out the window; in profile her 
face was high-arched, motionless. When Elnora entered she 
turned her head and looked at the Negress with an expression 
immediate and interrogative. 

"They ain't come in the back way, have they?" she said. 

"Nome," Elnora said. She approached the chair. 

The old woman looked out the window again. "I must say 
I don't understand this at all. Miss Narcissa's doing a mighty 
lot of traipsing around all of a sudden. Picking up and " 

Elnora came to the chair. "A right smart," she said in her 
cold, quiet voice, "for a woman lazy as her." 

"Picking up " the old woman said. She ceased. "You 
stop talking that way about her." 

"I ain't said nothing but the truth," Elnora said. 

"Then you keep it to yourself. She's Bayard's wife. A 
Sartoris woman, now." 

"She won't never be a Sartoris woman," Elnora said. 

The other was looking out the window. "Picking up all 
of a sudden two days ago and going to Memphis to spend 
two nights, that hadn't spent a night away from that boy 
since he was born. Leaving him for two whole nights, mind 
you, without giving any reason, and then coming home and 
taking him off to walk in the woods in the middle of the day. 
Not that he missed her. Do you think he missed her at all 
while she was gone?" 

"Nome," Elnora said. "Ain't no Sartoris man never missed 
nobody." 



There Was a Queen 731 

"Of course he didn't." The old woman looked out the 
window. Elnora stood a little behind the chair. "Did they go 
on across the pasture?" 

"I don't know. They went out of sight, still going. 
Toward the creek." 

"Toward the creek? What in the world for?" 

Elnora didn't answer. She stood a little behind the chair, 
erect, still as an Indian. The afternoon was drawing on. The 
sun was now falling level across the garden below the win- 
dow, and soon the jasmine in the garden began to smell with 
evening, coming into the room in slow waves almost pal- 
pable; thick, sweet, oversweet. The two women were mo- 
tionless in the window: the one leaning a little forward in the 
wheel chair, the Negress a little behind the chair, motionless 
too and erect as a caryatid. 

The light in the garden was beginning to turn copper- 
colored when the woman and the boy entered the garden and 
approached the house. The old woman in the chair leaned 
suddenly forward. To Elnora it seemed as if the old woman 
in the wheel chair had in that motion escaped her helpless 
body like a bird and crossed the garden to meet the child; 
moving forward a little herself Elnora could see on the 
other's face an expression fond, immediate, and oblivious. So 
the two people had crossed the garden and were almost to 
the house when the old woman sat suddenly and sharply 
back. "Why, they're wet!" she said. "Look at their clothes. 
They have been in the creek with their clothes on!" 

"I reckon I better go and get supper started," Elnora said. 



II 

IN THE kitchen Elnora prepared the lettuce and the tomatoes, 
and sliced the bread (not honest cornbread, not even biscuit) 
which the woman whose very name she did not speak unless 
it was absolutely necessary, had taught her to bake. Isom and 



732 The Middle Ground 

Saddle sat in two chairs against the wall. "I got nothing 
against her," Elnora said. "I nigger and she white. But my 
black children got more blood than she got. More behavior." 

"You and Miss Jenny both think ain't nobody been born 
since Miss Jenny," Isom said. 

"Who is been?" Elnora said. 

"Miss Jenny get along all right with Miss Narcissa," Isom 
said. "Seem to me like she the one to say. I ain't heard her 
say nothing about it." 

"Because Miss Jenny quality," Elnora said. "That's why. 
And that's something you don't know nothing about, because 
you born too late to see any of it except her." 

"Look to me like Miss Narcissa good quality as anybody 
else," Isom said. "I don't see no difference." 

Elnora moved suddenly from the table. Isom as suddenly 
sprang up and moved his chair out of his mother's path. But 
she only went to the cupboard and took a platter from it 
and returned to the table, to the tomatoes. "Born Sartoris or 
born quality of any kind ain't is, it's does." She talked in a 
level, inflectionless voice above her limber, brown, deft 
hands. When she spoke of the two women she used "she" 
indiscriminately, putting the least inflection on the one which 
referred to Miss Jenny. "Come all the way here by Herself, 
and the country still full of Yankees. All the way from Cal- 
lina, with Her folks all killed and dead except old Marse 
John, and him two hundred miles away in Missippi " 

"It's moren two hundred miles from here to Cal-lina," 
Isom said. "Learnt that in school. It's nigher two thousand." 

Elnora's hands did not cease. She did not seem to have 
heard him. "With the Yankees done killed Her paw and Her 
husband and burned the Cal-lina house over Her and Her 
mammy's head, and She come all the way to Missippi by 
Herself, to the only kin She had left. Getting here in the 
dead of winter without nothing in this world of God's but 



There Was a Queen 733 

a basket with some flower seeds and two bottles of wine and 
them colored window panes old Marse John put in the li- 
brary window so She could look through it like it was Cal- 
lina. She got here at dusk-dark on Christmas Day and old 
Marse John and the chillen and my mammy waiting on the 
porch, and Her setting high-headed in the wagon for old 
Marse John to lift Her down. They never even kissed 
then, out where folks could see them. Old Marse John just 
said, 'Well, Jenny,' and she just said, 'Well, Johnny,' and 
they walked into the house, him leading Her by the hand, 
until they was inside the house where the commonalty 
couldn't spy on them. Then She begun to cry, and old Marse 
John holding Her, after all them four thousand miles " 

"It ain't four thousand miles from here to Cal-lina," Isom 
said. "Ain't but two thousand. What the book say in school." 

Elnora paid no attention to him at all; her hands did not 
cease. "It took Her hard, the crying did. 'It's because I ain't 
used to crying,' she said. 'I got out of the habit of it. I never 
had the time. Them goddamn Yankees,' she said. 'Them god- 
damn Yankees.' " Elnora moved again, to the cupboard. It 
was as though she walked out of the sound of her voice on 
her silent, naked feet, leaving it to fill the quiet kitchen 
though the voice itself had ceased. She took another platter 
down and returned to the table, her hands busy again among 
the tomatoes and lettuce, the food which she herself could 
not eat. "And that's how it is that she" (she was now speak- 
ing of Narcissa; the two Negroes knew it) "thinks she can 
pick up and go to Memphis and frolic, and leave Her alone 
in this house for two nights without nobody but niggers to 
look after Her. Move out here under a Sartoris roof and eat 
Sartoris food for ten years, and then pick up and go to 
Memphis same as a nigger on a excursion, without even telling 
why she was going." 

"I thought you said Miss Jenny never needed nobody but 



734 The Middle Ground 

you to take care of her," Isom said. "I thought you said yes- 
terday you never cared if she come back or not." 

Elnora made a sound, harsh, disparaging, not loud. "Her 
not come back? When she worked for five years to get her- 
self married to Bayard? Working on Miss Jenny all the time 
Bayard was off to that war? I watched her. Coming out here 
two or three times a week, with Miss Jenny thinking she was 
just coming out to visit like quality. But I knowed. I knowed 
what she was up to all the time. Because I knows trash. I 
knows the way trash goes about working in with quality. 
Quality can't see that, because it quality. But I can." 

"Then Bory must be trash, too," Isom said. 

Elnora turned now. But Isom was already out of his chair 
before she spoke. "You shut your mouth and get yourself 
ready to serve supper." She watched him go to the sink and 
prepare to wash his hands. Then she turned back to the table, 
her long hands brown and deft among the red tomatoes and 
the pale absinth-green of the lettuce. "Needings," she said. 
"It ain't Bory's needings and it ain't Her needings. It's dead 
folks' needings. Old Marse John's and Gunnel's and Mister 
John's and Bayard's that's dead and can't do nothing about it. 
That's where the needings is. That's what I'm talking about. 
And not nobody to see to it except Her yonder in that chair, 
and me, a nigger, back here in this kitchen. I ain't got noth- 
ing against her. I just say to let quality consort with quality, 
and unquality do the same thing. You get that coat on, now. 
This here is all ready." 

Ill 

IT WAS the boy who told her. She leaned forward in the 
wheel chair and watched through the window as the woman 
and the child crossed the garden and passed out of sight be- 
yond the angle of the house. Still leaning forward and look- 



There Was a Queen 735 

ing down into the garden, she heard them enter the house 
and pass the library door and mount the stairs. She did not 
move, nor look toward the door. She continued to look down 
into the garden, at the now stout shrubs which she had 
fetched from Carolina as shoots not much bigger than 
matches. It was in the garden that she and the younger 
woman who was to marry her nephew and bear a son, had 
become acquainted. That was back in 1918, and young Bay- 
ard and his brother John were still in France. It was before 
John was killed, and two or three times a week Narcissa 
would come out from town to visit her while she worked 
among the flowers. "And she engaged to Bayard all the time 
and not telling me," the old woman thought. "But it was little 
she ever told me about anything," she thought, looking down 
into the garden which was beginning to fill with twilight 
and which she had not entered in five years. "Little enough 
about anything. Sometimes I wonder how she ever got herself 
engaged to Bayard, talking so little. Maybe she did it by just 
being, filling some space, like she got that letter." That was 
one day shortly before Bayard returned home. Narcissa 
came out and stayed for two hours, then just before she left 
she showed the letter. It was anonymous and obscene; it 
sounded mad, and at the time she had tried to get Narcissa 
to let her show the letter to Bayard's grandfather and have 
him make some effort to find the man and punish him, but 
Narcissa refused. "I'll just burn it and forget about it," Nar- 
cissa said. "Well, that's your business," the older woman said. 
"But that should not be permitted. A lady should not be at 
the mercy of a man like that, even by mail. Any gentleman 
will believe that, act upon it. Besides, if you don't do some- 
thing about it, he'll write you again." "Then I'll show it to 
Colonel Sartoris," Narcissa said. She was an orphan, her 
brother also in France. "But can't you see I just can't have 
any man know that anybody thought such things about me." 



The Middle Ground 

"Well, I'd rather have the whole world know that somebody 
thought that way about me once and got horsewhipped for 
it, than to have him keep on thinking that way about me, un- 
punished. But it's your affair." "I'll just burn it and forget 
about it," Narcissa said. Then Bayard returned, and shortly 
afterward he and Narcissa were married and Narcissa came 
out to the house to live. Then she was pregnant, and before 
the child was born Bayard was killed in an airplane, and his 
grandfather, old Bayard, was dead and the child came, and 
it was two years before she thought to ask her niece if any 
more letters had come; and Narcissa told her no. 

So they had lived quietly then, their women's life in the 
big house without men. Now and then she had urged Nar- 
cissa to marry again. But the other had refused, quietly, and 
they had gone on so for years, the two of them and the child 
whom she persisted in calling after his dead uncle. Then one 
evening a week ago, Narcissa had a guest for supper; when 
she learned that the guest was to be a man, she sat quite still 
in her chair for a time. "Ah," she thought, quietly. "It's come. 
Well. But it had to; she is young. And to live out here alone 
with a bedridden old woman. Well. But I wouldn't have her 
do as I did. Would not expect it of her. After all, she is not a 
Sartoris. She is no kin to them, to a lot of fool proud ghosts.'* 
The guest came. She did not see him until she was wheeled 
in to the supper table. Then she saw a bald, youngish man 
with a clever face and a Phi Beta Kappa key on his watch 
chain. The key she did not recognize, but she knew at once 
that he was a Jew, and when he spoke to her her outrage be- 
came fury and she jerked back in the chair like a striking 
snake, the motion strong enough to thrust the chair back 
from the table. "Narcissa," she said, "what is this Yankee 
doing here?" 

There they were, about the candle-lit table, the three rigid 
people. Then the man spoke: "Madam," he said, "there'd be 



There Was a Queen 737 

no Yankees left if your sex had ever taken the field against 
us." 

"You don't have to tell me that, young man," she said. 
"You can thank your stars it was just men your grandfather 
fought." Then she had called Isom and had herself wheeled 
from the table, taking no supper. And even in her bedroom 
she would not let them turn on the light, and she refused the 
tray which Narcissa sent up. She sat beside her dark window 
until the stranger was gone. 

Then three days later Narcissa made her sudden and mys- 
terious trip to Memphis and stayed two nights, who had 
never before been separated overnight from her son since he 
was born. She had gone without explanation and returned 
without explanation, and now the old woman had just 
watched her and the boy cross the garden, their garments still 
damp upon them, as though they had been in the creek. 

It was the boy who told her. He came into the room in 
fresh clothes, his hair still damp, though neatly combed now. 
She said no word as he entered and came to her chair. "We 
been in the creek," he said. "Not swimming, though. Just sit- 
ting in the water. She wanted me to show her the swimming 
hole. But we didn't swim. I don't reckon she can. We just 
sat in the water with our clothes on. All evening. She wanted 
to do it." 

"Ah," the old woman said. "Oh. Well. That must have 
been fun. Is she coming down soon?" 

"Yessum. When she gets dressed." 

"Well. . . . You'll have time to go outdoors a while before 
supper, if you want to." 

"I just as soon stay in here with you, if you want me to." 

"No. You go outdoors. I'll be all right until Saddie comes." 

"All right." He left the room. 

The window faded slowly as the sunset died. The old 
woman's silver head faded too, like something motionless on 



738 The Middle Ground 

a sideboard. The sparse colored panes which framed the 
window dreamed, rich and hushed. She sat there and pres- 
ently she heard her nephew's wife descending the stairs. She 
sat quietly, watching the door, until the young woman 
entered. 

She wore white: a large woman in her thirties, within the 
twilight something about her of that heroic quality of stat- 
uary. "Do you want the light?" she said. 

"No," the old woman said. "No. Not yet." She sat erect in 
the wheel chair, motionless, watching the young woman 
cross the room, her white dress flowing slowly, heroic, like 
a caryatid from a temple facade come to life. She sat down, 

"It was those let " she said. 

''Wait," the old woman said. "Before you begin. The jas- 
mine. Do you smell it?" 

"Yes. It was those " 

"Wait. Always about this time of day it begins. It has 
begun about this time of day in June for fifty-seven years 
this summer. I brought them from Carolina, in a basket. I 
remember how that first March I sat up all one night, burn- 
ing newspapers about the roots. Do you smell it?" 

"Yes." 

"If it's marriage, I told you. I told you five years ago that 
I wouldn't blame you. A young woman, a widow. Even 
though you have a child, I told you that a child would not be 
enough. I told you I would not blame you for not doing as 
I had done. Didn't I?" 

"Yes. But it's not that bad." 

"Not? Not how bad?" The old woman sat erect, her head 
back a little, her thin face fading into the twilight with a 
profound quality. "I won't blame you. I told you that. You 
are not to consider me. My life is done; I need little; nothing 
the Negroes can't do. Don't you mind me, do you hear?" 
The other said nothing, motionless too, serene; their voices 



There Was a Queen 739 

seemed to materialize in the dusk between them, unsourced 
of either mouth, either still and fading face. "You'll have to 
tell me, then," the old woman said. 

"It was those letters. Thirteen years ago: don't you re- 
member? Before Bayard came back from France, before you 
even knew that we were engaged. I showed you one of them 
and you wanted to give it to Colonel Sartoris and let him find 
out who sent it and I wouldn't do it and you said that no 
lady would permit herself to receive anonymous love letters, 
no matter how badly she wanted to." 

"Yes. I said it was better for the world to know that a lady 
had received a letter like that, than to have one man in secret 
thinking such things about her, unpunished. You told me 
you burned it." 

"I lied. I kept it. And I got ten more of them. I didn't tell 
you because of what you said about a lady." 

"Ah," the old woman said. 

"Yes. I kept them all. I thought I had them hidden where 
nobody could ever find them." 

"And you read them again. You would take them out now 
and then and read them again." 

"I thought I had them hidden. Then you remember that 
night after Bayard and I were married when somebody broke 
into our house in town; the same night that book-keeper in 
Colonel Sartoris' bank stole that money and ran away? The 
next morning the letters were gone, and then I knew who had 
sent them." 

"Yes," the old woman said. She had not moved, her fading 
head like something inanimate in silver. 

"So they were out in the world. They were somewhere. 
I was crazy for a while. I thought of people, men, reading 
them, seeing not only my name on them, but the marks of 
.my eyes where I had read them again and again. I was wild. 
When Bayard and I were on our honeymoon, I was wild. 



740 The Middle Ground 

I couldn't even think about him alone. It was like I was 
having to sleep with all the men in the world at the same 
time. 

"Then it was almost twelve years ago, and I had Bory> 
and I supposed I had got over it. Got used to having them out 
in the world. Maybe I had begun to think that they were 
gone, destroyed, and I was safe. Now and then I would 
remember them, but it was like somehow that Bory was 
protecting me, that they couldn't pass him to reach me. As 
though if I just stayed out here and was good to Bory and 
you And then, one afternoon, after twelve years, that man 
came out to see me, that Jew. The one who stayed to supper 
that night." 

"Ah," the old woman said. "Yes." 

"He was a Federal agent. They were still trying to catch 
the man who had robbed the bank, and the agent had got 
hold of my letters. Found them where the book-keeper had 
lost them or thrown them away that night while he was 
running away, and the agent had had them twelve years, 
working on the case. At last he came out to see me, trying 
to find out where the man had gone, thinking I must know, 
since the man had written me letters like that. You remem- 
ber him: how you looked at him and you said, 'Narcissa, 
who is this Yankee?' " 

"Yes. I remember." 

"That man had my letters. He had had them for twelve 
years. He" 

"Had had?" the old woman said. "Had had?" 

"Yes. I have them now. He hadn't sent them to Washing- 
ton yet, so nobody had read them except him. And now 
nobody will ever read them." She ceased; she breathed 
quietly, tranquil. "You don't understand yet, do you? He 
had all the information the letters could give him, but he 
would have to turn them in to the Department anyway 



There Was a Queen 741 

and I asked him for them but he said he would have to turn 
them in and I asked him if he would make his final decision 
in Memphis and he said why Memphis and I told him why. 
I knew I couldn't buy them from him with money, you see. 
That's why I had to go to Memphis. I had that much regard 
for Bory and you, to go somewhere else. And that's all. Men 
are all about the same, with their ideas of good and bad. 
Fools." She breathed quietly. Then she yawned, deep, with 
utter relaxation. Then she stopped yawning. She looked 
again at the rigid, fading silver head opposite her. "Don't 
you understand yet?" she said. "I had to do it. They were 
mine; I had to get them back. That was the only way I 
could do it. But I would have done more than that. So I got 
them. And now they are burned up. Nobody will ever see 
them. Because he can't tell, you see. It would ruin him to 
ever tell that they even existed. They might even put him 
in the penitentiary. And now they are burned up." 

"Yes," the old woman said. "And so you came back home 
and you took Johnny so you and he could sit together in the 
creek, the running water. In Jordan. Yes, Jordan at the back 
of a country pasture in Missippi." 

"I had to get them back. Don't you see that?" 

"Yes," the old woman said. "Yes." She sat bolt upright 
in the wheel chair. "Well, my Lord. Us poor, fool women 
Johnny!" Her voice was sharp, peremptory. 

"What?" the young woman said. "Do you want some- 
thing?" 

"No," the other said. "Call Johnny. I want my hat." The 
young woman rose. "I'll get it." 

"No. I want Johnny to do it." 

The young woman stood looking down at the other, the 
old woman erect in the wheel chair beneath the fading 
silver crown of her hair. Then she left the room. The old 
woman did not move. She sat there in the dusk until the boy 



742 The Middle Ground 

entered, carrying a small black bonnet of an ancient shape. 
Now and then, when the old woman became upset, they 
would fetch her the hat and she would place it on the exact 
top of her head and sit there by the window. He brought 
the bonnet to her. His mother was with him. It was full 
dusk now; the old woman was invisible save for her hair. 
"Do you want the light now?" the young woman said. 

"No," the old woman said. She set the bonnet on the top 
of her head. "You all go on to supper and let me rest awhile. 
Go on, all of you." They obeyed, leaving her sitting there: 
a slender, erect figure indicated only by the single gleam of 
her hair, in the wheel chair beside the window framed by 
the sparse and defunctive Carolina glass. 

IV 

SINCE THE BOY'S eighth birthday, he had had his dead grand- 
father's place at the end of the table. Tonight however his 
mother rearranged things. "With just the two of us," she 
said. "You come and sit by me." The boy hesitated. "Please. 
Won't you? I got so lonesome for you last night in Memphis. 
Weren't you lonesome for me?" 

"I slept with Aunt Jenny," the boy said. "We had a good 
time." 

"Please." 

"All right," he said. He took the chair beside hers. 

"Closer," she said. She drew the chair closer. "But we 
won't ever again, ever. Will we?" She leaned toward him, 
taking his hand. 

"What? Sit in the creek?" 

"Not ever leave one another again." 

"I didn't get lonesome. We had a good time." 

"Promise. Promise, Bory." His name was Benhow, her 
family name. 



There Was a Queen 743 

"All right." 

Isom, in a duck jacket, served them and returned to the 
kitchen. 

"She ain't coming to supper?" Elnora said. 

"Nome," Isom said. "Setting yonder by the window, in 
the dark. She say she don't want no supper." 

Elnora looked at Saddie. "What was they doing last time 
you went to the library?" 

"Her and Miss Narcissa talking." 

"They was still talking when I went to 'nounce supper," 
Isom said. "I tole you that." 

"I know," Elnora said. Her voice was not sharp. Neither 
was it gentle. It was just peremptory, soft, cold. "What 
were they talking about?" 

"I don't know'm," Isom said. "You the one taught me not 
to listen to white folks." 

"What were they talking about, Isom?" Elnora said. She 
was looking at him, grave, intent, commanding. 

" 'Bout somebody getting married. Miss Jenny say 'I tole 
you long time ago I ain't blame you. A young woman like 
you. I want you to marry. Not do like I done,' what she 
say." 

"I bet she fixing to marry, too," Saddie said. 

"Who marry?" Elnora said. "Her marry? What for? Give 
up what she got here? That ain't what it is. I wished I 
knowed what been going on here this last week. . . ." Her 
voice ceased; she turned her head toward the door as though 
she were listening for something. From the dining-room 
came the sound of the young woman's voice. But Elnora 
appeared to listen to something beyond this. Then she left 
the room. She did not go hurriedly, yet her long silent stride 
carried her from sight with an abruptness like that of an 
inanimate figure drawn on wheels, off a stage. 

She went quietly up the dark hall, passing the dining-room 



744 The Middle Ground 

door unremarked by the two people at the table. They sat 
close. The woman was talking, leaning toward the boy. 
Elnora went on without a sound: a converging of shadows 
upon which her lighter face seemed to float without body, 
her eyeballs faintly white. Then she stopped suddenly. She 
had not reached the library door, yet she stopped, invisible, 
soundless, her eyes suddenly quite luminous in her almost- 
vanished face, and she began to chant in faint sing-song: 
"Oh, Lawd; oh, Lawd," not loud. Then she moved, went 
swiftly on to the library door and looked into the room 
where beside the dead window the old woman sat motion- 
less, indicated only by that faint single gleam of white hair, 
as though for ninety years life had died slowly up her spare, 
erect frame, to linger for a twilit instant about her head be- 
fore going out, though life itself had ceased. Elnora looked 
for only an instant into the room. Then she turned and 
retraced her swift and silent steps to the dining-room door. 
The woman still leaned toward the boy, talking. They did 
not remark Elnora at once. She stood in the doorway, tall, 
not touching the jamb on either side. Her face was blank; 
she did not appear to be looking at, speaking to, any one. 

"You better come quick, I reckon/' she said in that soft, 
cold, peremptory voice. 



Mountain Victory 



THROUGH THE CABIN WINDOW the five people watched the 
cavalcade toil up the muddy trail and halt at the gate. First 
came a man on foot, leading a horse. He wore a broad hat 
low on his face, his body shapeless in a weathered gray 
cloak from which his left hand emerged, holding the reins. 
The bridle was silvermounted, the horse a gaunt, mud- 
splashed, thoroughbred bay, wearing in place of saddle a 
navy blue army blanket bound on it by a piece of rope. The 
second horse was a shortbodied, bigheaded, scrub sorrel, also 
mudsplashed. It wore a bridle contrived of rope and 
wire, and an army saddle in which, perched high above the 
dangling stirrups, crouched a shapeless something larger 
than a child, which at that distance appeared to wear no 
garment or garments known to man. 

One of the three men at the cabin window left it quickly. 
The others, without turning, heard him cross the room 
swiftly and then return, carrying a long rifle. 

"No, you don't," the older man said. 

"Don't you see that cloak?" the younger said. "That rebel 
cloak?" 

"I wont have it," the other said. "They have surrendered. 
They have said they are whipped." 

Through the window they watched the horses stop at the 
gate. The gate was of sagging hickory, in a rock fence 

745 
But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
And fortify your self in your decay
With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
And many maiden gardens, yet unset,
With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers,
Much liker than your painted counterfeit:
So should the lines of life that life repair,
Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,
Neither in inward worth nor outward fair,
Can make you live your self in eyes of men.
   To give away yourself, keeps yourself still,
   And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.
This seems to take its cue from the preceding sonnet, and the two together are in the form of a continuous meditation. Here the poet takes a step backwards from the declaration of promised immortality, for he has second thoughts and his verse (his pupil pen) is found to be inadequate to represent the young man as he really is, or to give a true account of his inner and outer beauty. Therefore the boy is urged once more to give himself away, in marriage, and thus to recreate himself.

 

Lines 9-12 present difficulties of meaning which probably can never be fully resolved. See the commentary below.

The 1609 Quarto Version


BVt wherefore do not you a mightier waie 
Make warre vppon this bloudie tirant time? 
And fortifie your ?elfe in your decay 
With meanes more ble??ed then my barren rime? 
Now ?tand you on the top of happie houres, 
And many maiden gardens yet vn?et, 
With vertuous wi?h would beare your liuing flowers, 
Much liker then your painted counterfeit: 
So ?hould the lines of life that life repaire 
Which this (Times pen?el or my pupill pen ) 
Neither in inward worth nor outward faire 
Can make you liue your ?elfe in eies of men, 
  To giue away your ?elfe,keeps your ?elfe ?till, 
 And you mu?t liue drawne by your owne ?weet                                                                                           ?kill,

Commentary

1. But wherefore do not you a mightier way
a mightier way = a way that is more efficacious than my idea of 'engrafting you new', in verse, as I even but now suggested. The way proposed (of warring against Time) is elaborated in what follows, 5-14. might suggests the use of military might, given further emphasis byn the continuing use of military metaphors in the next two lines.
2. Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
bloody = bloodthirsty, creating bloodbaths, brutish, destructive. Tyrants were often cruel and bloody, especially those recorded in histories of the ancient world.
3. And fortify your self in your decay
The imagery of warfare is continued with the idea of building fortifications. 
in your decay = as you grow old
4. With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
means more blessed = methods which will be potentially more successful, more fruitful than my barren rhyme, (which does not produce an actual you to replace the you who is subject to grievous mortality).
5. Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
You have reached the pinnacle of your perfection. happy is used both in its modern sense, and with the meaning of lucky, successful.
6. And many maiden gardens, yet unset,
The imagery is drawn from horticulture. The maiden gardens not yet planted or sown with flowers are unmarried girls who are potential mates for the young man. Evidently a sexual meaning is intended here also. 
unset = with no seeds or plants put in them.
7. With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers,
With virtuous wish merely emphasises the desirability of the virtuous maidens. In addition to being unstained virgins, it is as if they seek only his good, not their own, they wish virtuously to bear his children. Women were expected to play a subservient role to men. But there may also be a hidden reference to the Virgin Mary who bore the flower of Christ in her womb. 
would bear you living flowers = would bear children for you.
8. Much liker than your painted counterfeit:
Much liker = much more like you; 
than your painted counterfeit = than is a painted image of you. A painting could be seen as a counterfeit of the real thing. Painting also refers to 'painting in verse', as proposed in the previous sonnet. For counterfeit as 'painting, image, see OED(n).3., and compare: 
What find I here? Fair Portias counterfeit. MV.V.3.2.115.
9. So should the lines of life that life repair,
the lines of life - many interpretations are given of this. It is thought to refer mainly to life's continuation, hence lineage, descent, descendants, children. 
that life refers to the young man's life; 
repair - with the added sense of replacement and renewal, as in 3.3 and 10.8. Hence we paraphrase as 'in that way your children would replace you (as you grow older and became due for repair)'.
10. Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,
More difficulties arise here. The main problem is that of deciding the referent of this. Does it mean 'this verse, this sonnet, which is currently describing you'? In which case Time's pencil and my pupil pen are a further adumbration of it (this sonnet) and qualify its scope. A pencil was a painter's brush, such as was used in painting miniatures. Therefore the line seems to imply that the descriptive power of verse in depicting or painting the young man is achieved by Time itself painting him, or by my (the poet's) amateur pen describing him. This hardly seems possible because Time's pencil is not responsible for the sonnet - it is the poet's creation. this could therefore refer to the twofold possibility, the two alternatives to repairing one's hasting life, (time's pencil, my pupil pen) and this is equivalent to these in modern English. In which case the over-arching meaning of 9-10 would be 'Thus would your children replace you as you grew old, whereas the two other alternatives, Time depicting you in the stature which today you have reached, or me with my inadequate pen attempting to describe you, (would not suffice because etc.)'. Q's punctuation seems to support this latter meaning. GBE prefers Which this time's pencil or my pupil pen, glossing this time's pencil as the contemporary style of painting. (GBE. p.129) and rejecting the usual assumption that this is the same Time as is referred to in line 2, where he is a bloody tyrant, rather than a painter. Thus he avoids giving Time a split personality. An appealing solution to the problem, which may finally be impossible to resolve. But perhaps we should not insist on perfect consistency when dealing with poems of this nature. As Walt Whitman said: 'Do I contradict myself? Well then I contradict myself. I am large. I contain multitudes.'
11. Neither in inward worth nor outward fair,
inward worth = characteristics, hidden qualities; 
outward fair = external appearance or beauty.
12. Can make you live your self in eyes of men.
Can reproduce you as you truly are to external observers (eyes of men). That is, (lines 9-12), the above methods fail to produce the desired results, for they make only a pale copy of you, without the essentials.
13. To give away yourself, keeps yourself still,
To give away yourself - as in marriage. An echo of the marriage service, 'Do you give this woman etc.?' 
still = forever. By giving of yourself you will be preserved against time's decay. There is also the sexual meaning of giving semen, which creates another you. The male seed was thought to be the essential substance necessary for the creation of a new life. GBE quotes Donne's poem The Canonisation' GBE, NCS Son. p.129 n.13.
14. And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.
And consequently you will go on living (must live), and you yourself will be the artist who draws the portrait of yourself.


[Enter LEONATO, HERO, and BEATRICE, with a Messenger]

Leonato. I learn in this letter that Don Peter of Arragon 
comes this night to Messina.
Messenger. He is very near by this: he was not three leagues off 
when I left him. 5
Leonato. How many gentlemen have you lost in this action?
Messenger. But few of any sort, and none of name.
Leonato. A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings 
home full numbers. I find here that Don Peter hath 
bestowed much honour on a young Florentine called Claudio. 10
Messenger. Much deserved on his part and equally remembered by 
Don Pedro: he hath borne himself beyond the 
promise of his age, doing, in the figure of a lamb, 
the feats of a lion: he hath indeed better 
bettered expectation than you must expect of me to 15
tell you how.
Leonato. He hath an uncle here in Messina will be very much 
glad of it.
Messenger. I have already delivered him letters, and there 
appears much joy in him; even so much that joy could 20
not show itself modest enough without a badge of 
bitterness.
Leonato. Did he break out into tears?
Messenger. In great measure.
Leonato. A kind overflow of kindness: there are no faces 25
truer than those that are so washed. How much 
better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping!
Beatrice. I pray you, is Signior Mountanto returned from the 
wars or no?
Messenger. I know none of that name, lady: there was none such 30
in the army of any sort.
Leonato. What is he that you ask for, niece?
Hero. My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua.
Messenger. O, he's returned; and as pleasant as ever he was.
Beatrice. He set up his bills here in Messina and challenged 35
Cupid at the flight; and my uncle's fool, reading 
the challenge, subscribed for Cupid, and challenged 
him at the bird-bolt. I pray you, how many hath he 
killed and eaten in these wars? But how many hath 
he killed? for indeed I promised to eat all of his killing. 40
Leonato. Faith, niece, you tax Signior Benedick too much; 
but he'll be meet with you, I doubt it not.
Messenger. He hath done good service, lady, in these wars.
Beatrice. You had musty victual, and he hath holp to eat it: 
he is a very valiant trencherman; he hath an 45
excellent stomach.
Messenger. And a good soldier too, lady.
Beatrice. And a good soldier to a lady: but what is he to a lord?
Messenger. A lord to a lord, a man to a man; stuffed with all 
honourable virtues. 50
Beatrice. It is so, indeed; he is no less than a stuffed man: 
but for the stuffing,well, we are all mortal.
Leonato. You must not, sir, mistake my niece. There is a 
kind of merry war betwixt Signior Benedick and her: 
they never meet but there's a skirmish of wit 55
between them.
Beatrice. Alas! he gets nothing by that. In our last 
conflict four of his five wits went halting off, and 
now is the whole man governed with one: so that if 
he have wit enough to keep himself warm, let him 60
bear it for a difference between himself and his 
horse; for it is all the wealth that he hath left, 
to be known a reasonable creature. Who is his 
companion now? He hath every month a new sworn brother.
Messenger. Is't possible? 65
Beatrice. Very easily possible: he wears his faith but as 
the fashion of his hat; it ever changes with the 
next block.
Messenger. I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your books.
Beatrice. No; an he were, I would burn my study. But, I pray 70
you, who is his companion? Is there no young 
squarer now that will make a voyage with him to the devil?
Messenger. He is most in the company of the right noble Claudio.
Beatrice. O Lord, he will hang upon him like a disease: he 
is sooner caught than the pestilence, and the taker 75
runs presently mad. God help the noble Claudio! if 
he have caught the Benedick, it will cost him a 
thousand pound ere a' be cured.
Messenger. I will hold friends with you, lady.
Beatrice. Do, good friend. 80
Leonato. You will never run mad, niece.
Beatrice. No, not till a hot January.
Messenger. Don Pedro is approached.
[Enter DON PEDRO, DON JOHN, CLAUDIO, BENEDICK, and BALTHASAR]

Don Pedro. Good Signior Leonato, you are come to meet your 85
trouble: the fashion of the world is to avoid 
cost, and you encounter it.
Leonato. Never came trouble to my house in the likeness of 
your grace: for trouble being gone, comfort should 
remain; but when you depart from me, sorrow abides 90
and happiness takes his leave.
Don Pedro. You embrace your charge too willingly. I think this 
is your daughter.
Leonato. Her mother hath many times told me so.
Benedick. Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her? 95
Leonato. Signior Benedick, no; for then were you a child.
Don Pedro. You have it full, Benedick: we may guess by this 
what you are, being a man. Truly, the lady fathers 
herself. Be happy, lady; for you are like an 
honourable father. 100
Benedick. If Signior Leonato be her father, she would not 
have his head on her shoulders for all Messina, as 
like him as she is.
Beatrice. I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior 
Benedick: nobody marks you. 105
Benedick. What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet living?
Beatrice. Is it possible disdain should die while she hath 
such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick? 
Courtesy itself must convert to disdain, if you come 
in her presence. 110
Benedick. Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain I 
am loved of all ladies, only you excepted: and I 
would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard 
heart; for, truly, I love none.
Beatrice. A dear happiness to women: they would else have 115
been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I thank God 
and my cold blood, I am of your humour for that: I 
had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man 
swear he loves me.
Benedick. God keep your ladyship still in that mind! so some 120
gentleman or other shall 'scape a predestinate 
scratched face.
Beatrice. Scratching could not make it worse, an 'twere such 
a face as yours were.
Benedick. Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher. 125
Beatrice. A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours.
Benedick. I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, and 
so good a continuer. But keep your way, i' God's 
name; I have done.
Beatrice. You always end with a jade's trick: I know you of old. 130
Don Pedro. That is the sum of all, Leonato. Signior Claudio 
and Signior Benedick, my dear friend Leonato hath 
invited you all. I tell him we shall stay here at 
the least a month; and he heartily prays some 
occasion may detain us longer. I dare swear he is no 135
hypocrite, but prays from his heart.
Leonato. If you swear, my lord, you shall not be forsworn. 
[To DON JOHN] 
Let me bid you welcome, my lord: being reconciled to 
the prince your brother, I owe you all duty. 140
Don John. I thank you: I am not of many words, but I thank 
you.
Leonato. Please it your grace lead on?
Don Pedro. Your hand, Leonato; we will go together.
[Exeunt all except BENEDICK and CLAUDIO]

Claudio. Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of Signior Leonato?
Benedick. I noted her not; but I looked on her.
Claudio. Is she not a modest young lady?
Benedick. Do you question me, as an honest man should do, for 
my simple true judgment; or would you have me speak 150
after my custom, as being a professed tyrant to their sex?
Claudio. No; I pray thee speak in sober judgment.
Benedick. Why, i' faith, methinks she's too low for a high 
praise, too brown for a fair praise and too little 
for a great praise: only this commendation I can 155
afford her, that were she other than she is, she 
were unhandsome; and being no other but as she is, I 
do not like her.
Claudio. Thou thinkest I am in sport: I pray thee tell me 
truly how thou likest her. 160
Benedick. Would you buy her, that you inquire after her?
Claudio. Can the world buy such a jewel?
Benedick. Yea, and a case to put it into. But speak you this 
with a sad brow? or do you play the flouting Jack, 
to tell us Cupid is a good hare-finder and Vulcan a 165
rare carpenter? Come, in what key shall a man take 
you, to go in the song?
Claudio. In mine eye she is the sweetest lady that ever I 
looked on.
Benedick. I can see yet without spectacles and I see no such 170
matter: there's her cousin, an she were not 
possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty 
as the first of May doth the last of December. But I 
hope you have no intent to turn husband, have you?
Claudio. I would scarce trust myself, though I had sworn the 175
contrary, if Hero would be my wife.
Benedick. Is't come to this? In faith, hath not the world 
one man but he will wear his cap with suspicion? 
Shall I never see a bachelor of three-score again? 
Go to, i' faith; an thou wilt needs thrust thy neck 180
into a yoke, wear the print of it and sigh away 
Sundays. Look Don Pedro is returned to seek you.
[Re-enter DON PEDRO]

Don Pedro. What secret hath held you here, that you followed 
not to Leonato's? 185
Benedick. I would your grace would constrain me to tell.
Don Pedro. I charge thee on thy allegiance.
Benedick. You hear, Count Claudio: I can be secret as a dumb 
man; I would have you think so; but, on my 
allegiance, mark you this, on my allegiance. He is 190
in love. With who? now that is your grace's part. 
Mark how short his answer is;With Hero, Leonato's 
short daughter.
Claudio. If this were so, so were it uttered.
Benedick. Like the old tale, my lord: 'it is not so, nor 195
'twas not so, but, indeed, God forbid it should be 
so.'
Claudio. If my passion change not shortly, God forbid it 
should be otherwise.
Don Pedro. Amen, if you love her; for the lady is very well worthy. 200
Claudio. You speak this to fetch me in, my lord.
Don Pedro. By my troth, I speak my thought.
Claudio. And, in faith, my lord, I spoke mine.
Benedick. And, by my two faiths and troths, my lord, I spoke mine.
Claudio. That I love her, I feel. 205
Don Pedro. That she is worthy, I know.
Benedick. That I neither feel how she should be loved nor 
know how she should be worthy, is the opinion that 
fire cannot melt out of me: I will die in it at the stake.
Don Pedro. Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic in the despite 210
of beauty.
Claudio. And never could maintain his part but in the force 
of his will.
Benedick. That a woman conceived me, I thank her; that she 
brought me up, I likewise give her most humble 215
thanks: but that I will have a recheat winded in my 
forehead, or hang my bugle in an invisible baldrick, 
all women shall pardon me. Because I will not do 
them the wrong to mistrust any, I will do myself the 
right to trust none; and the fine is, for the which 220
I may go the finer, I will live a bachelor.
Don Pedro. I shall see thee, ere I die, look pale with love.
Benedick. With anger, with sickness, or with hunger, my lord, 
not with love: prove that ever I lose more blood 
with love than I will get again with drinking, pick 225
out mine eyes with a ballad-maker's pen and hang me 
up at the door of a brothel-house for the sign of 
blind Cupid.
Don Pedro. Well, if ever thou dost fall from this faith, thou 
wilt prove a notable argument. 230
Benedick. If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat and shoot 
at me; and he that hits me, let him be clapped on 
the shoulder, and called Adam.
Don Pedro. Well, as time shall try: 'In time the savage bull 
doth bear the yoke.' 235
Benedick. The savage bull may; but if ever the sensible 
Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull's horns and set 
them in my forehead: and let me be vilely painted, 
and in such great letters as they write 'Here is 
good horse to hire,' let them signify under my sign 240
'Here you may see Benedick the married man.'
Claudio. If this should ever happen, thou wouldst be horn-mad.
Don Pedro. Nay, if Cupid have not spent all his quiver in 
Venice, thou wilt quake for this shortly.
Benedick. I look for an earthquake too, then. 245
Don Pedro. Well, you temporize with the hours. In the 
meantime, good Signior Benedick, repair to 
Leonato's: commend me to him and tell him I will 
not fail him at supper; for indeed he hath made 
great preparation. 250
Benedick. I have almost matter enough in me for such an 
embassage; and so I commit you
Claudio. To the tuition of God: From my house, if I had it,
Don Pedro. The sixth of July: Your loving friend, Benedick.
Benedick. Nay, mock not, mock not. The body of your 255
discourse is sometime guarded with fragments, and 
the guards are but slightly basted on neither: ere 
you flout old ends any further, examine your 
conscience: and so I leave you.
[Exit]

Claudio. My liege, your highness now may do me good.
Don Pedro. My love is thine to teach: teach it but how, 
And thou shalt see how apt it is to learn 
Any hard lesson that may do thee good.
Claudio. Hath Leonato any son, my lord? 265
Don Pedro. No child but Hero; she's his only heir. 
Dost thou affect her, Claudio?
Claudio. O, my lord, 
When you went onward on this ended action, 
I look'd upon her with a soldier's eye, 270
That liked, but had a rougher task in hand 
Than to drive liking to the name of love: 
But now I am return'd and that war-thoughts 
Have left their places vacant, in their rooms 
Come thronging soft and delicate desires, 275
All prompting me how fair young Hero is, 
Saying, I liked her ere I went to wars.
Don Pedro. Thou wilt be like a lover presently 
And tire the hearer with a book of words. 
If thou dost love fair Hero, cherish it, 280
And I will break with her and with her father, 
And thou shalt have her. Was't not to this end 
That thou began'st to twist so fine a story?
Claudio. How sweetly you do minister to love, 
That know love's grief by his complexion! 285
But lest my liking might too sudden seem, 
I would have salved it with a longer treatise.
Don Pedro. What need the bridge much broader than the flood? 
The fairest grant is the necessity. 
Look, what will serve is fit: 'tis once, thou lovest, 290
And I will fit thee with the remedy. 
I know we shall have revelling to-night: 
I will assume thy part in some disguise 
And tell fair Hero I am Claudio, 
And in her bosom I'll unclasp my heart 295
And take her hearing prisoner with the force 
And strong encounter of my amorous tale: 
Then after to her father will I break; 
And the conclusion is, she shall be thine. 
In practise let us put it presently. 300
[Exeunt]

	     	
Act I, Scene 2

A room in LEONATOs house.

     	 
---
[Enter LEONATO and ANTONIO, meeting]

Leonato. How now, brother! Where is my cousin, your son? 
hath he provided this music?
Antonio. He is very busy about it. But, brother, I can tell 305
you strange news that you yet dreamt not of.
Leonato. Are they good?
Antonio. As the event stamps them: but they have a good 
cover; they show well outward. The prince and Count 
Claudio, walking in a thick-pleached alley in mine 310
orchard, were thus much overheard by a man of mine: 
the prince discovered to Claudio that he loved my 
niece your daughter and meant to acknowledge it 
this night in a dance: and if he found her 
accordant, he meant to take the present time by the 315
top and instantly break with you of it.
Leonato. Hath the fellow any wit that told you this?
Antonio. A good sharp fellow: I will send for him; and 
question him yourself.
Leonato. No, no; we will hold it as a dream till it appear 320
itself: but I will acquaint my daughter withal, 
that she may be the better prepared for an answer, 
if peradventure this be true. Go you and tell her of it. 
[Enter Attendants] 
Cousins, you know what you have to do. O, I cry you 325
mercy, friend; go you with me, and I will use your 
skill. Good cousin, have a care this busy time.
[Exeunt]
	     	
Act I, Scene 3

The same.

     	 
---
[Enter DON JOHN and CONRADE]

Conrade. What the good-year, my lord! why are you thus out 330
of measure sad?
Don John. There is no measure in the occasion that breeds; 
therefore the sadness is without limit.
Conrade. You should hear reason.
Don John. And when I have heard it, what blessing brings it? 335
Conrade. If not a present remedy, at least a patient 
sufferance.
Don John. I wonder that thou, being, as thou sayest thou art, 
born under Saturn, goest about to apply a moral 
medicine to a mortifying mischief. I cannot hide 340
what I am: I must be sad when I have cause and smile 
at no man's jests, eat when I have stomach and wait 
for no man's leisure, sleep when I am drowsy and 
tend on no man's business, laugh when I am merry and 
claw no man in his humour. 345
Conrade. Yea, but you must not make the full show of this 
till you may do it without controlment. You have of 
late stood out against your brother, and he hath 
ta'en you newly into his grace; where it is 
impossible you should take true root but by the 350
fair weather that you make yourself: it is needful 
that you frame the season for your own harvest.
Don John. I had rather be a canker in a hedge than a rose in 
his grace, and it better fits my blood to be 
disdained of all than to fashion a carriage to rob 355
love from any: in this, though I cannot be said to 
be a flattering honest man, it must not be denied 
but I am a plain-dealing villain. I am trusted with 
a muzzle and enfranchised with a clog; therefore I 
have decreed not to sing in my cage. If I had my 360
mouth, I would bite; if I had my liberty, I would do 
my liking: in the meantime let me be that I am and 
seek not to alter me.
Conrade. Can you make no use of your discontent?
Don John. I make all use of it, for I use it only. 365
Who comes here? 
[Enter BORACHIO] 
What news, Borachio?
Borachio. I came yonder from a great supper: the prince your 
brother is royally entertained by Leonato: and I 370
can give you intelligence of an intended marriage.
Don John. Will it serve for any model to build mischief on? 
What is he for a fool that betroths himself to 
unquietness?
Borachio. Marry, it is your brother's right hand. 375
Don John. Who? the most exquisite Claudio?
Borachio. Even he.
Don John. A proper squire! And who, and who? which way looks 
he?
Borachio. Marry, on Hero, the daughter and heir of Leonato. 380
Don John. A very forward March-chick! How came you to this?
Borachio. Being entertained for a perfumer, as I was smoking a 
musty room, comes me the prince and Claudio, hand 
in hand in sad conference: I whipt me behind the 
arras; and there heard it agreed upon that the 385
prince should woo Hero for himself, and having 
obtained her, give her to Count Claudio.
Don John. Come, come, let us thither: this may prove food to 
my displeasure. That young start-up hath all the 
glory of my overthrow: if I can cross him any way, I 390
bless myself every way. You are both sure, and will assist m

Act II, Scene 1

A hall in LEONATOS house.

     	 
---
[Enter LEONATO, ANTONIO, HERO, BEATRICE, and others]

Leonato. Was not Count John here at supper?
Antonio. I saw him not. 400
Beatrice. How tartly that gentleman looks! I never can see 
him but I am heart-burned an hour after.
Hero. He is of a very melancholy disposition.
Beatrice. He were an excellent man that were made just in the 
midway between him and Benedick: the one is too 405
like an image and says nothing, and the other too 
like my lady's eldest son, evermore tattling.
Leonato. Then half Signior Benedick's tongue in Count John's 
mouth, and half Count John's melancholy in Signior 
Benedick's face, 410
Beatrice. With a good leg and a good foot, uncle, and money 
enough in his purse, such a man would win any woman 
in the world, if a' could get her good-will.
Leonato. By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get thee a 
husband, if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue. 415
Antonio. In faith, she's too curst.
Beatrice. Too curst is more than curst: I shall lessen God's 
sending that way; for it is said, 'God sends a curst 
cow short horns;' but to a cow too curst he sends none.
Leonato. So, by being too curst, God will send you no horns. 420
Beatrice. Just, if he send me no husband; for the which 
blessing I am at him upon my knees every morning and 
evening. Lord, I could not endure a husband with a 
beard on his face: I had rather lie in the woollen.
Leonato. You may light on a husband that hath no beard. 425
Beatrice. What should I do with him? dress him in my apparel 
and make him my waiting-gentlewoman? He that hath a 
beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no 
beard is less than a man: and he that is more than 
a youth is not for me, and he that is less than a 430
man, I am not for him: therefore, I will even take 
sixpence in earnest of the bear-ward, and lead his 
apes into hell.
Leonato. Well, then, go you into hell?
Beatrice. No, but to the gate; and there will the devil meet 435
me, like an old cuckold, with horns on his head, and 
say 'Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get you to 
heaven; here's no place for you maids:' so deliver 
I up my apes, and away to Saint Peter for the 
heavens; he shows me where the bachelors sit, and 440
there live we as merry as the day is long.
Antonio. [To HERO] Well, niece, I trust you will be ruled 
by your father.
Beatrice. Yes, faith; it is my cousin's duty to make curtsy 
and say 'Father, as it please you.' But yet for all 445
that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else 
make another curtsy and say 'Father, as it please 
me.'
Leonato. Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband.
Beatrice. Not till God make men of some other metal than 450
earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be 
overmastered with a pierce of valiant dust? to make 
an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl? 
No, uncle, I'll none: Adam's sons are my brethren; 
and, truly, I hold it a sin to match in my kindred. 455
Leonato. Daughter, remember what I told you: if the prince 
do solicit you in that kind, you know your answer.
Beatrice. The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you be 
not wooed in good time: if the prince be too 
important, tell him there is measure in every thing 460
and so dance out the answer. For, hear me, Hero: 
wooing, wedding, and repenting, is as a Scotch jig, 
a measure, and a cinque pace: the first suit is hot 
and hasty, like a Scotch jig, and full as 
fantastical; the wedding, mannerly-modest, as a 465
measure, full of state and ancientry; and then comes 
repentance and, with his bad legs, falls into the 
cinque pace faster and faster, till he sink into his grave.
Leonato. Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly.
Beatrice. I have a good eye, uncle; I can see a church by daylight. 470
Leonato. The revellers are entering, brother: make good room. 
[All put on their masks] 
[Enter DON PEDRO, CLAUDIO, BENEDICK, BALTHASAR,] 
DON JOHN, BORACHIO, MARGARET, URSULA and others, masked]
Don Pedro. Lady, will you walk about with your friend? 475
Hero. So you walk softly and look sweetly and say nothing, 
I am yours for the walk; and especially when I walk away.
Don Pedro. With me in your company?
Hero. I may say so, when I please.
Don Pedro. And when please you to say so? 480
Hero. When I like your favour; for God defend the lute 
should be like the case!
Don Pedro. My visor is Philemon's roof; within the house is Jove.
Hero. Why, then, your visor should be thatched.
Don Pedro. Speak low, if you speak love. 485
[Drawing her aside]

Balthasar. Well, I would you did like me.
Margaret. So would not I, for your own sake; for I have many 
ill-qualities.
Balthasar. Which is one? 490
Margaret. I say my prayers aloud.
Balthasar. I love you the better: the hearers may cry, Amen.
Margaret. God match me with a good dancer!
Balthasar. Amen.
Margaret. And God keep him out of my sight when the dance is 495
done! Answer, clerk.
Balthasar. No more words: the clerk is answered.
Ursula. I know you well enough; you are Signior Antonio.
Antonio. At a word, I am not.
Ursula. I know you by the waggling of your head. 500
Antonio. To tell you true, I counterfeit him.
Ursula. You could never do him so ill-well, unless you were 
the very man. Here's his dry hand up and down: you 
are he, you are he.
Antonio. At a word, I am not. 505
Ursula. Come, come, do you think I do not know you by your 
excellent wit? can virtue hide itself? Go to, 
mum, you are he: graces will appear, and there's an 
end.
Beatrice. Will you not tell me who told you so? 510
Benedick. No, you shall pardon me.
Beatrice. Nor will you not tell me who you are?
Benedick. Not now.
Beatrice. That I was disdainful, and that I had my good wit 
out of the 'Hundred Merry Tales:'well this was 515
Signior Benedick that said so.
Benedick. What's he?
Beatrice. I am sure you know him well enough.
Benedick. Not I, believe me.
Beatrice. Did he never make you laugh? 520
Benedick. I pray you, what is he?
Beatrice. Why, he is the prince's jester: a very dull fool; 
only his gift is in devising impossible slanders: 
none but libertines delight in him; and the 
commendation is not in his wit, but in his villany; 525
for he both pleases men and angers them, and then 
they laugh at him and beat him. I am sure he is in 
the fleet: I would he had boarded me.
Benedick. When I know the gentleman, I'll tell him what you say.
Beatrice. Do, do: he'll but break a comparison or two on me; 530
which, peradventure not marked or not laughed at, 
strikes him into melancholy; and then there's a 
partridge wing saved, for the fool will eat no 
supper that night. 
[Music] 535
We must follow the leaders.
Benedick. In every good thing.
Beatrice. Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave them at 
the next turning.
[Dance. Then exeunt all except DON JOHN, BORACHIO, and CLAUDIO]

Don John. Sure my brother is amorous on Hero and hath 
withdrawn her father to break with him about it. 
The ladies follow her and but one visor remains.
Borachio. And that is Claudio: I know him by his bearing.
Don John. Are not you Signior Benedick? 545
Claudio. You know me well; I am he.
Don John. Signior, you are very near my brother in his love: 
he is enamoured on Hero; I pray you, dissuade him 
from her: she is no equal for his birth: you may 
do the part of an honest man in it. 550
Claudio. How know you he loves her?
Don John. I heard him swear his affection.
Borachio. So did I too; and he swore he would marry her to-night.
Don John. Come, let us to the banquet.
[Exeunt DON JOHN and BORACHIO]

Claudio. Thus answer I in the name of Benedick, 
But hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio. 
'Tis certain so; the prince wooes for himself. 
Friendship is constant in all other things 
Save in the office and affairs of love: 560
Therefore, all hearts in love use their own tongues; 
Let every eye negotiate for itself 
And trust no agent; for beauty is a witch 
Against whose charms faith melteth into blood. 
This is an accident of hourly proof, 565
Which I mistrusted not. Farewell, therefore, Hero!
[Re-enter BENEDICK]

Benedick. Count Claudio?
Claudio. Yea, the same.
Benedick. Come, will you go with me? 570
Claudio. Whither?
Benedick. Even to the next willow, about your own business, 
county. What fashion will you wear the garland of? 
about your neck, like an usurer's chain? or under 
your arm, like a lieutenant's scarf? You must wear 575
it one way, for the prince hath got your Hero.
Claudio. I wish him joy of her.
Benedick. Why, that's spoken like an honest drovier: so they 
sell bullocks. But did you think the prince would 
have served you thus? 580
Claudio. I pray you, leave me.
Benedick. Ho! now you strike like the blind man: 'twas the 
boy that stole your meat, and you'll beat the post.
Claudio. If it will not be, I'll leave you.
[Exit]

Benedick. Alas, poor hurt fowl! now will he creep into sedges. 
But that my Lady Beatrice should know me, and not 
know me! The prince's fool! Ha? It may be I go 
under that title because I am merry. Yea, but so I 
am apt to do myself wrong; I am not so reputed: it 590
is the base, though bitter, disposition of Beatrice 
that puts the world into her person and so gives me 
out. Well, I'll be revenged as I may.
[Re-enter DON PEDRO]

Don Pedro. Now, signior, where's the count? did you see him? 595
Benedick. Troth, my lord, I have played the part of Lady Fame. 
I found him here as melancholy as a lodge in a 
warren: I told him, and I think I told him true, 
that your grace had got the good will of this young 
lady; and I offered him my company to a willow-tree, 600
either to make him a garland, as being forsaken, or 
to bind him up a rod, as being worthy to be whipped.
Don Pedro. To be whipped! What's his fault?
Benedick. The flat transgression of a schoolboy, who, being 
overjoyed with finding a birds' nest, shows it his 605
companion, and he steals it.
Don Pedro. Wilt thou make a trust a transgression? The 
transgression is in the stealer.
Benedick. Yet it had not been amiss the rod had been made, 
and the garland too; for the garland he might have 610
worn himself, and the rod he might have bestowed on 
you, who, as I take it, have stolen his birds' nest.
Don Pedro. I will but teach them to sing, and restore them to 
the owner.
Benedick. If their singing answer your saying, by my faith, 615
you say honestly.
Don Pedro. The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you: the 
gentleman that danced with her told her she is much 
wronged by you.
Benedick. O, she misused me past the endurance of a block! 620
an oak but with one green leaf on it would have 
answered her; my very visor began to assume life and 
scold with her. She told me, not thinking I had been 
myself, that I was the prince's jester, that I was 
duller than a great thaw; huddling jest upon jest 625
with such impossible conveyance upon me that I stood 
like a man at a mark, with a whole army shooting at 
me. She speaks poniards, and every word stabs: 
if her breath were as terrible as her terminations, 
there were no living near her; she would infect to 630
the north star. I would not marry her, though she 
were endowed with all that Adam bad left him before 
he transgressed: she would have made Hercules have 
turned spit, yea, and have cleft his club to make 
the fire too. Come, talk not of her: you shall find 635
her the infernal Ate in good apparel. I would to God 
some scholar would conjure her; for certainly, while 
she is here, a man may live as quiet in hell as in a 
sanctuary; and people sin upon purpose, because they 
would go thither; so, indeed, all disquiet, horror 640
and perturbation follows her.
Don Pedro. Look, here she comes.
[Enter CLAUDIO, BEATRICE, HERO, and LEONATO]

Benedick. Will your grace command me any service to the 
world's end? I will go on the slightest errand now 645
to the Antipodes that you can devise to send me on; 
I will fetch you a tooth-picker now from the 
furthest inch of Asia, bring you the length of 
Prester John's foot, fetch you a hair off the great 
Cham's beard, do you any embassage to the Pigmies, 650
rather than hold three words' conference with this 
harpy. You have no employment for me?
Don Pedro. None, but to desire your good company.
Benedick. O God, sir, here's a dish I love not: I cannot 
endure my Lady Tongue. 655
[Exit]

Don Pedro. Come, lady, come; you have lost the heart of 
Signior Benedick.
Beatrice. Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile; and I gave 
him use for it, a double heart for his single one: 660
marry, once before he won it of me with false dice, 
therefore your grace may well say I have lost it.
Don Pedro. You have put him down, lady, you have put him down.
Beatrice. So I would not he should do me, my lord, lest I 
should prove the mother of fools. I have brought 665
Count Claudio, whom you sent me to seek.
Don Pedro. Why, how now, count! wherefore are you sad?
Claudio. Not sad, my lord.
Don Pedro. How then? sick?
Claudio. Neither, my lord. 670
Beatrice. The count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor 
well; but civil count, civil as an orange, and 
something of that jealous complexion.
Don Pedro. I' faith, lady, I think your blazon to be true; 
though, I'll be sworn, if he be so, his conceit is 675
false. Here, Claudio, I have wooed in thy name, and 
fair Hero is won: I have broke with her father, 
and his good will obtained: name the day of 
marriage, and God give thee joy!
Leonato. Count, take of me my daughter, and with her my 680
fortunes: his grace hath made the match, and an 
grace say Amen to it.
Beatrice. Speak, count, 'tis your cue.
Claudio. Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were 
but little happy, if I could say how much. Lady, as 685
you are mine, I am yours: I give away myself for 
you and dote upon the exchange.
Beatrice. Speak, cousin; or, if you cannot, stop his mouth 
with a kiss, and let not him speak neither.
Don Pedro. In faith, lady, you have a merry heart. 690
Beatrice. Yea, my lord; I thank it, poor fool, it keeps on 
the windy side of care. My cousin tells him in his 
ear that he is in her heart.
Claudio. And so she doth, cousin.
Beatrice. Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes every one to the 695
world but I, and I am sunburnt; I may sit in a 
corner and cry heigh-ho for a husband!
Don Pedro. Lady Beatrice, I will get you one.
Beatrice. I would rather have one of your father's getting. 
Hath your grace ne'er a brother like you? Your 700
father got excellent husbands, if a maid could come by them.
Don Pedro. Will you have me, lady?
Beatrice. No, my lord, unless I might have another for 
working-days: your grace is too costly to wear 
every day. But, I beseech your grace, pardon me: I 705
was born to speak all mirth and no matter.
Don Pedro. Your silence most offends me, and to be merry best 
becomes you; for, out of question, you were born in 
a merry hour.
Beatrice. No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there 710
was a star danced, and under that was I born. 
Cousins, God give you joy!
Leonato. Niece, will you look to those things I told you of?
Beatrice. I cry you mercy, uncle. By your grace's pardon.
[Exit]

Don Pedro. By my troth, a pleasant-spirited lady.
Leonato. There's little of the melancholy element in her, my 
lord: she is never sad but when she sleeps, and 
not ever sad then; for I have heard my daughter say, 
she hath often dreamed of unhappiness and waked 720
herself with laughing.
Don Pedro. She cannot endure to hear tell of a husband.
Leonato. O, by no means: she mocks all her wooers out of suit.
Don Pedro. She were an excellent wife for Benedict.
Leonato. O Lord, my lord, if they were but a week married, 725
they would talk themselves mad.
Don Pedro. County Claudio, when mean you to go to church?
Claudio. To-morrow, my lord: time goes on crutches till love 
have all his rites.
Leonato. Not till Monday, my dear son, which is hence a just 730
seven-night; and a time too brief, too, to have all 
things answer my mind.
Don Pedro. Come, you shake the head at so long a breathing: 
but, I warrant thee, Claudio, the time shall not go 
dully by us. I will in the interim undertake one of 735
Hercules' labours; which is, to bring Signior 
Benedick and the Lady Beatrice into a mountain of 
affection the one with the other. I would fain have 
it a match, and I doubt not but to fashion it, if 
you three will but minister such assistance as I 740
shall give you direction.
Leonato. My lord, I am for you, though it cost me ten 
nights' watchings.
Claudio. And I, my lord.
Don Pedro. And you too, gentle Hero? 745
Hero. I will do any modest office, my lord, to help my 
cousin to a good husband.
Don Pedro. And Benedick is not the unhopefullest husband that 
I know. Thus far can I praise him; he is of a noble 
strain, of approved valour and confirmed honesty. I 750
will teach you how to humour your cousin, that she 
shall fall in love with Benedick; and I, with your 
two helps, will so practise on Benedick that, in 
despite of his quick wit and his queasy stomach, he 
shall fall in love with Beatrice. If we can do this, 755
Cupid is no longer an archer: his glory shall be 
ours, for we are the only love-gods. Go in with me, 
and I will tell you my drift.

Scene II.
Elsinore. A hall in the Castle.

Enter Hamlet and Horatio.

  Ham. So much for this, sir; now shall you see the other.
    You do remember all the circumstance?
  Hor. Remember it, my lord!
  Ham. Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting
    That would not let me sleep. Methought I lay
    Worse than the mutinies in the bilboes. Rashly-
    And prais'd be rashness for it; let us know,
    Our indiscretion sometime serves us well
    When our deep plots do pall; and that should learn us
    There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
    Rough-hew them how we will-
  Hor. That is most certain.
  Ham. Up from my cabin,
    My sea-gown scarf'd about me, in the dark
    Grop'd I to find out them; had my desire,
    Finger'd their packet, and in fine withdrew
    To mine own room again; making so bold
    (My fears forgetting manners) to unseal
    Their grand commission; where I found, Horatio
    (O royal knavery!), an exact command,
    Larded with many several sorts of reasons,
    Importing Denmark's health, and England's too,
    With, hoo! such bugs and goblins in my life-
    That, on the supervise, no leisure bated,
    No, not to stay the finding of the axe,
    My head should be struck off.
  Hor. Is't possible?
  Ham. Here's the commission; read it at more leisure.
    But wilt thou bear me how I did proceed?
  Hor. I beseech you.
  Ham. Being thus benetted round with villanies,
    Or I could make a prologue to my brains,
    They had begun the play. I sat me down;
    Devis'd a new commission; wrote it fair.
    I once did hold it, as our statists do,
    A baseness to write fair, and labour'd much
    How to forget that learning; but, sir, now
    It did me yeoman's service. Wilt thou know
    Th' effect of what I wrote?
  Hor. Ay, good my lord.
  Ham. An earnest conjuration from the King,
    As England was his faithful tributary,
    As love between them like the palm might flourish,
    As peace should still her wheaten garland wear
    And stand a comma 'tween their amities,
    And many such-like as's of great charge,
    That, on the view and knowing of these contents,
    Without debatement further, more or less,
    He should the bearers put to sudden death,
    Not shriving time allow'd.
  Hor. How was this seal'd?
  Ham. Why, even in that was heaven ordinant.
    I had my father's signet in my purse,
    which was the model of that Danish seal;
    Folded the writ up in the form of th' other,
    Subscrib'd it, gave't th' impression, plac'd it safely,
    The changeling never known. Now, the next day
    Was our sea-fight; and what to this was sequent
    Thou know'st already.
  Hor. So Guildenstern and Rosencrantz go to't.
  Ham. Why, man, they did make love to this employment!
    They are not near my conscience; their defeat
    Does by their own insinuation grow.
    'Tis dangerous when the baser nature comes
    Between the pass and fell incensed points
    Of mighty opposites.
  Hor. Why, what a king is this!
  Ham. Does it not, thinks't thee, stand me now upon-
    He that hath kill'd my king, and whor'd my mother;
    Popp'd in between th' election and my hopes;
    Thrown out his angle for my Proper life,
    And with such coz'nage- is't not perfect conscience
    To quit him with this arm? And is't not to be damn'd
    To let this canker of our nature come
    In further evil?
  Hor. It must be shortly known to him from England
    What is the issue of the business there.
  Ham. It will be short; the interim is mine,
    And a man's life is no more than to say 'one.'
    But I am very sorry, good Horatio,
    That to Laertes I forgot myself,
    For by the image of my cause I see
    The portraiture of his. I'll court his favours.
    But sure the bravery of his grief did put me
    Into a tow'ring passion.
  Hor. Peace! Who comes here?

                 Enter young Osric, a courtier.

  Osr. Your lordship is right welcome back to Denmark.
  Ham. I humbly thank you, sir. [Aside to Horatio] Dost know this
    waterfly?
  Hor. [aside to Hamlet] No, my good lord.
  Ham. [aside to Horatio] Thy state is the more gracious; for 'tis a
    vice to know him. He hath much land, and fertile. Let a beast be
    lord of beasts, and his crib shall stand at the king's mess. 'Tis
    a chough; but, as I say, spacious in the possession of dirt.
  Osr. Sweet lord, if your lordship were at leisure, I should impart
    a thing to you from his Majesty.
  Ham. I will receive it, sir, with all diligence of spirit. Put your
    bonnet to his right use. 'Tis for the head.
  Osr. I thank your lordship, it is very hot.
  Ham. No, believe me, 'tis very cold; the wind is northerly.
  Osr. It is indifferent cold, my lord, indeed.
  Ham. But yet methinks it is very sultry and hot for my complexion.
  Osr. Exceedingly, my lord; it is very sultry, as 'twere- I cannot
    tell how. But, my lord, his Majesty bade me signify to you that
    he has laid a great wager on your head. Sir, this is the matter-
  Ham. I beseech you remember.
                           [Hamlet moves him to put on his hat.]
  Osr. Nay, good my lord; for mine ease, in good faith. Sir, here is
    newly come to court Laertes; believe me, an absolute gentleman,
    full of most excellent differences, of very soft society and
    great showing. Indeed, to speak feelingly of him, he is the card
    or calendar of gentry; for you shall find in him the continent of
    what part a gentleman would see.
  Ham. Sir, his definement suffers no perdition in you; though, I
    know, to divide him inventorially would dozy th' arithmetic of
    memory, and yet but yaw neither in respect of his quick sail.
    But, in the verity of extolment, I take him to be a soul of great
    article, and his infusion of such dearth and rareness as, to make
    true diction of him, his semblable is his mirror, and who else
    would trace him, his umbrage, nothing more.
  Osr. Your lordship speaks most infallibly of him.
  Ham. The concernancy, sir? Why do we wrap the gentleman in our more
    rawer breath
  Osr. Sir?
  Hor [aside to Hamlet] Is't not possible to understand in another
    tongue? You will do't, sir, really.
  Ham. What imports the nomination of this gentleman
  Osr. Of Laertes?
  Hor. [aside] His purse is empty already. All's golden words are
    spent.
  Ham. Of him, sir.
  Osr. I know you are not ignorant-
  Ham. I would you did, sir; yet, in faith, if you did, it would not
    much approve me. Well, sir?
  Osr. You are not ignorant of what excellence Laertes is-
  Ham. I dare not confess that, lest I should compare with him in
    excellence; but to know a man well were to know himself.
  Osr. I mean, sir, for his weapon; but in the imputation laid on him
    by them, in his meed he's unfellowed.
  Ham. What's his weapon?
  Osr. Rapier and dagger.
  Ham. That's two of his weapons- but well.
  Osr. The King, sir, hath wager'd with him six Barbary horses;
    against the which he has impon'd, as I take it, six French
    rapiers and poniards, with their assigns, as girdle, hangers, and
    so. Three of the carriages, in faith, are very dear to fancy,
    very responsive to the hilts, most delicate carriages, and of
    very liberal conceit.
  Ham. What call you the carriages?
  Hor. [aside to Hamlet] I knew you must be edified by the margent
    ere you had done.
  Osr. The carriages, sir, are the hangers.
  Ham. The phrase would be more germane to the matter if we could
    carry cannon by our sides. I would it might be hangers till then.
    But on! Six Barbary horses against six French swords, their
    assigns, and three liberal-conceited carriages: that's the French
    bet against the Danish. Why is this all impon'd, as you call it?
  Osr. The King, sir, hath laid that, in a dozen passes between
    yourself and him, he shall not exceed you three hits; he hath
    laid on twelve for nine, and it would come to immediate trial
    if your lordship would vouchsafe the answer.
  Ham. How if I answer no?
  Osr. I mean, my lord, the opposition of your person in trial.
  Ham. Sir, I will walk here in the hall. If it please his Majesty,
    it is the breathing time of day with me. Let the foils be
    brought, the gentleman willing, and the King hold his purpose,
    I will win for him if I can; if not, I will gain nothing but my
    shame and the odd hits.
  Osr. Shall I redeliver you e'en so?
  Ham. To this effect, sir, after what flourish your nature will.
  Osr. I commend my duty to your lordship.
  Ham. Yours, yours. [Exit Osric.] He does well to commend it
    himself; there are no tongues else for's turn.
  Hor. This lapwing runs away with the shell on his head.
  Ham. He did comply with his dug before he suck'd it. Thus has he,
    and many more of the same bevy that I know the drossy age dotes
    on, only got the tune of the time and outward habit of encounter-
    a kind of yesty collection, which carries them through and
    through the most fann'd and winnowed opinions; and do but blow
    them to their trial-the bubbles are out,

                            Enter a Lord.

  Lord. My lord, his Majesty commended him to you by young Osric, who
    brings back to him, that you attend him in the hall. He sends to
    know if your pleasure hold to play with Laertes, or that you will
    take longer time.
  Ham. I am constant to my purposes; they follow the King's pleasure.
    If his fitness speaks, mine is ready; now or whensoever, provided
    I be so able as now.
  Lord. The King and Queen and all are coming down.
  Ham. In happy time.
  Lord. The Queen desires you to use some gentle entertainment to
    Laertes before you fall to play.
  Ham. She well instructs me.
                                                    [Exit Lord.]
  Hor. You will lose this wager, my lord.
  Ham. I do not think so. Since he went into France I have been in
    continual practice. I shall win at the odds. But thou wouldst not
    think how ill all's here about my heart. But it is no matter.
  Hor. Nay, good my lord -
  Ham. It is but foolery; but it is such a kind of gaingiving as
    would perhaps trouble a woman.
  Hor. If your mind dislike anything, obey it. I will forestall their
    repair hither and say you are not fit.
  Ham. Not a whit, we defy augury; there's a special providence in
    the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come', if it be
    not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come:
    the readiness is all. Since no man knows aught of what he leaves,
    what is't to leave betimes? Let be.

    Enter King, Queen, Laertes, Osric, and Lords, with other
              Attendants with foils and gauntlets.
               A table and flagons of wine on it.

  King. Come, Hamlet, come, and take this hand from me.
                    [The King puts Laertes' hand into Hamlet's.]
  Ham. Give me your pardon, sir. I have done you wrong;
    But pardon't, as you are a gentleman.
    This presence knows,
    And you must needs have heard, how I am punish'd
    With sore distraction. What I have done
    That might your nature, honour, and exception
    Roughly awake, I here proclaim was madness.
    Was't Hamlet wrong'd Laertes? Never Hamlet.
    If Hamlet from himself be taken away,
    And when he's not himself does wrong Laertes,
    Then Hamlet does it not, Hamlet denies it.
    Who does it, then? His madness. If't be so,
    Hamlet is of the faction that is wrong'd;
    His madness is poor Hamlet's enemy.
    Sir, in this audience,
    Let my disclaiming from a purpos'd evil
    Free me so far in your most generous thoughts
    That I have shot my arrow o'er the house
    And hurt my brother.
  Laer. I am satisfied in nature,
    Whose motive in this case should stir me most
    To my revenge. But in my terms of honour
    I stand aloof, and will no reconcilement
    Till by some elder masters of known honour
    I have a voice and precedent of peace
    To keep my name ungor'd. But till that time
    I do receive your offer'd love like love,
    And will not wrong it.
  Ham. I embrace it freely,
    And will this brother's wager frankly play.
    Give us the foils. Come on.
  Laer. Come, one for me.
  Ham. I'll be your foil, Laertes. In mine ignorance
    Your skill shall, like a star i' th' darkest night,
    Stick fiery off indeed.
  Laer. You mock me, sir.
  Ham. No, by this bad.
  King. Give them the foils, young Osric. Cousin Hamlet,
    You know the wager?
  Ham. Very well, my lord.
    Your Grace has laid the odds o' th' weaker side.
  King. I do not fear it, I have seen you both;
    But since he is better'd, we have therefore odds.
  Laer. This is too heavy; let me see another.
  Ham. This likes me well. These foils have all a length?
                                                Prepare to play.
  Osr. Ay, my good lord.
  King. Set me the stoups of wine upon that table.
    If Hamlet give the first or second hit,
    Or quit in answer of the third exchange,
    Let all the battlements their ordnance fire;
    The King shall drink to Hamlet's better breath,
    And in the cup an union shall he throw
    Richer than that which four successive kings
    In Denmark's crown have worn. Give me the cups;
    And let the kettle to the trumpet speak,
    The trumpet to the cannoneer without,
    The cannons to the heavens, the heaven to earth,
    'Now the King drinks to Hamlet.' Come, begin.
    And you the judges, bear a wary eye.
  Ham. Come on, sir.
  Laer. Come, my lord.                                They play.
  Ham. One.
  Laer. No.
  Ham. Judgment!
  Osr. A hit, a very palpable hit.
  Laer. Well, again!
  King. Stay, give me drink. Hamlet, this pearl is thine;
    Here's to thy health.
               [Drum; trumpets sound; a piece goes off [within].
    Give him the cup.
  Ham. I'll play this bout first; set it by awhile.
    Come. (They play.) Another hit. What say you?
  Laer. A touch, a touch; I do confess't.
  King. Our son shall win.
  Queen. He's fat, and scant of breath.
    Here, Hamlet, take my napkin, rub thy brows.
    The Queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet.
  Ham. Good madam!
  King. Gertrude, do not drink.
  Queen. I will, my lord; I pray you pardon me.          Drinks.
  King. [aside] It is the poison'd cup; it is too late.
  Ham. I dare not drink yet, madam; by-and-by.
  Queen. Come, let me wipe thy face.
  Laer. My lord, I'll hit him now.
  King. I do not think't.
  Laer. [aside] And yet it is almost against my conscience.
  Ham. Come for the third, Laertes! You but dally.
    pray You Pass with your best violence;
    I am afeard You make a wanton of me.
  Laer. Say you so? Come on.                               Play.
  Osr. Nothing neither way.
  Laer. Have at you now!
                [Laertes wounds Hamlet; then] in scuffling, they
                    change rapiers, [and Hamlet wounds Laertes].
  King. Part them! They are incens'd.
  Ham. Nay come! again!                         The Queen falls.
  Osr. Look to the Queen there, ho!
  Hor. They bleed on both sides. How is it, my lord?
  Osr. How is't, Laertes?
  Laer. Why, as a woodcock to mine own springe, Osric.
    I am justly kill'd with mine own treachery.
  Ham. How does the Queen?
  King. She sounds to see them bleed.
  Queen. No, no! the drink, the drink! O my dear Hamlet!
    The drink, the drink! I am poison'd.                 [Dies.]
  Ham. O villany! Ho! let the door be lock'd.
    Treachery! Seek it out.
                                                [Laertes falls.]
  Laer. It is here, Hamlet. Hamlet, thou art slain;
    No medicine in the world can do thee good.
    In thee there is not half an hour of life.
    The treacherous instrument is in thy hand,
    Unbated and envenom'd. The foul practice
    Hath turn'd itself on me. Lo, here I lie,
    Never to rise again. Thy mother's poison'd.
    I can no more. The King, the King's to blame.
  Ham. The point envenom'd too?
    Then, venom, to thy work.                    Hurts the King.
  All. Treason! treason!
  King. O, yet defend me, friends! I am but hurt.
  Ham. Here, thou incestuous, murd'rous, damned Dane,
    Drink off this potion! Is thy union here?
    Follow my mother.                                 King dies.
  Laer. He is justly serv'd.
    It is a poison temper'd by himself.
    Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet.
    Mine and my father's death come not upon thee,
    Nor thine on me!                                       Dies.
  Ham. Heaven make thee free of it! I follow thee.
    I am dead, Horatio. Wretched queen, adieu!
    You that look pale and tremble at this chance,
    That are but mutes or audience to this act,
    Had I but time (as this fell sergeant, Death,
    Is strict in his arrest) O, I could tell you-
    But let it be. Horatio, I am dead;
    Thou liv'st; report me and my cause aright
    To the unsatisfied.
  Hor. Never believe it.
    I am more an antique Roman than a Dane.
    Here's yet some liquor left.
  Ham. As th'art a man,
    Give me the cup. Let go! By heaven, I'll ha't.
    O good Horatio, what a wounded name
    (Things standing thus unknown) shall live behind me!
    If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart,
    Absent thee from felicity awhile,
    And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain,
    To tell my story.         [March afar off, and shot within.]
    What warlike noise is this?
  Osr. Young Fortinbras, with conquest come from Poland,
    To the ambassadors of England gives
    This warlike volley.
  Ham. O, I die, Horatio!
    The potent poison quite o'ercrows my spirit.
    I cannot live to hear the news from England,
    But I do prophesy th' election lights
    On Fortinbras. He has my dying voice.
    So tell him, with th' occurrents, more and less,
    Which have solicited- the rest is silence.             Dies.
  Hor. Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince,
    And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!
                                                 [March within.]
    Why does the drum come hither?

    Enter Fortinbras and English Ambassadors, with Drum,
                  Colours, and Attendants.

  Fort. Where is this sight?
  Hor. What is it you will see?
    If aught of woe or wonder, cease your search.
  Fort. This quarry cries on havoc. O proud Death,
    What feast is toward in thine eternal cell
    That thou so many princes at a shot
    So bloodily hast struck.
  Ambassador. The sight is dismal;
    And our affairs from England come too late.
    The ears are senseless that should give us bearing
    To tell him his commandment is fulfill'd
    That Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead.
    Where should We have our thanks?
  Hor. Not from his mouth,
    Had it th' ability of life to thank you.
    He never gave commandment for their death.
    But since, so jump upon this bloody question,
    You from the Polack wars, and you from England,
    Are here arriv'd, give order that these bodies
    High on a stage be placed to the view;
    And let me speak to the yet unknowing world
    How these things came about. So shall You hear
    Of carnal, bloody and unnatural acts;
    Of accidental judgments, casual slaughters;
    Of deaths put on by cunning and forc'd cause;
    And, in this upshot, purposes mistook
    Fall'n on th' inventors' heads. All this can I
    Truly deliver.
  Fort. Let us haste to hear it,
    And call the noblest to the audience.
    For me, with sorrow I embrace my fortune.
    I have some rights of memory in this kingdom
    Which now, to claim my vantage doth invite me.
  Hor. Of that I shall have also cause to speak,
    And from his mouth whose voice will draw on more.
    But let this same be presently perform'd,
    Even while men's minds are wild, lest more mischance
    On plots and errors happen.
  Fort. Let four captains
    Bear Hamlet like a soldier to the stage;
    For he was likely, had he been put on,
    To have prov'd most royally; and for his passage
    The soldiers' music and the rites of war
    Speak loudly for him.
    Take up the bodies. Such a sight as this
    Becomes the field but here shows much amiss.
    Go, bid the soldiers shoot.
            Exeunt marching; after the which a peal of ordnance
                                                   are shot off.


THE END



<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
COMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANY
SERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP.>>





1598

THE FIRST PART OF KING HENRY THE FOURTH


by William Shakespeare



Dramatis Personae

  King Henry the Fourth.
  Henry, Prince of Wales, son to the King.
  Prince John of Lancaster, son to the King.
  Earl of Westmoreland.
  Sir Walter Blunt.
  Thomas Percy, Earl of Worcester.
  Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland.
  Henry Percy, surnamed Hotspur, his son.
  Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March.
  Richard Scroop, Archbishop of York.
  Archibald, Earl of Douglas.
  Owen Glendower.
  Sir Richard Vernon.
  Sir John Falstaff.
  Sir Michael, a friend to the Archbishop of York.
  Poins.
  Gadshill
  Peto.
  Bardolph.

  Lady Percy, wife to Hotspur, and sister to Mortimer.
  Lady Mortimer, daughter to Glendower, and wife to Mortimer.
  Mistress Quickly, hostess of the Boar's Head in Eastcheap.

  Lords, Officers, Sheriff, Vintner, Chamberlain, Drawers, two
    Carriers, Travellers, and Attendants.




<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
COMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANY
SERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP.>>



SCENE.--England and Wales.


ACT I. Scene I.
London. The Palace.

Enter the King, Lord John of Lancaster, Earl of Westmoreland,
[Sir Walter Blunt,] with others.

  King. So shaken as we are, so wan with care,
    Find we a time for frighted peace to pant
    And breathe short-winded accents of new broils
    To be commenc'd in stronds afar remote.
    No more the thirsty entrance of this soil
    Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood.
    No more shall trenching war channel her fields,
    Nor Bruise her flow'rets with the armed hoofs
    Of hostile paces. Those opposed eyes
    Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven,
    All of one nature, of one substance bred,
    Did lately meet in the intestine shock
    And furious close of civil butchery,
    Shall now in mutual well-beseeming ranks
    March all one way and be no more oppos'd
    Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies.
    The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife,
    No more shall cut his master. Therefore, friends,
    As far as to the sepulchre of Christ-
    Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross
    We are impressed and engag'd to fight-
    Forthwith a power of English shall we levy,
    Whose arms were moulded in their mother's womb
    To chase these pagans in those holy fields
    Over whose acres walk'd those blessed feet
    Which fourteen hundred years ago were nail'd
    For our advantage on the bitter cross.
    But this our purpose now is twelvemonth old,
    And bootless 'tis to tell you we will go.
    Therefore we meet not now. Then let me hear
    Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland,
    What yesternight our Council did decree
    In forwarding this dear expedience.
  West. My liege, this haste was hot in question
    And many limits of the charge set down
    But yesternight; when all athwart there came
    A post from Wales, loaden with heavy news;
    Whose worst was that the noble Mortimer,
    Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight
    Against the irregular and wild Glendower,
    Was by the rude hands of that Welshman taken,
    A thousand of his people butchered;
    Upon whose dead corpse there was such misuse,
    Such beastly shameless transformation,
    By those Welshwomen done as may not be
    Without much shame retold or spoken of.
  King. It seems then that the tidings of this broil
    Brake off our business for the Holy Land.
  West. This, match'd with other, did, my gracious lord;
    For more uneven and unwelcome news
    Came from the North, and thus it did import:
    On Holy-rood Day the gallant Hotspur there,
    Young Harry Percy, and brave Archibald,
    That ever-valiant and approved Scot,
    At Holmedon met,
    Where they did spend a sad and bloody hour;
    As by discharge of their artillery
    And shape of likelihood the news was told;
    For he that brought them, in the very heat
    And pride of their contention did take horse,
    Uncertain of the issue any way.
  King. Here is a dear, a true-industrious friend,
    Sir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his horse,
    Stain'd with the variation of each soil
    Betwixt that Holmedon and this seat of ours,
    And he hath brought us smooth and welcome news.
    The Earl of Douglas is discomfited;
    Ten thousand bold Scots, two-and-twenty knights,
    Balk'd in their own blood did Sir Walter see
    On Holmedon's plains. Of prisoners, Hotspur took
    Mordake Earl of Fife and eldest son
    To beaten Douglas, and the Earl of Athol,
    Of Murray, Angus, and Menteith.
    And is not this an honourable spoil?
    A gallant prize? Ha, cousin, is it not?
  West. In faith,
    It is a conquest for a prince to boast of.
  King. Yea, there thou mak'st me sad, and mak'st me sin
    In envy that my Lord Northumberland
    Should be the father to so blest a son-
    A son who is the theme of honour's tongue,
    Amongst a grove the very straightest plant;
    Who is sweet Fortune's minion and her pride;
    Whilst I, by looking on the praise of him,
    See riot and dishonour stain the brow
    Of my young Harry. O that it could be prov'd
    That some night-tripping fairy had exchang'd
    In cradle clothes our children where they lay,
    And call'd mine Percy, his Plantagenet!
    Then would I have his Harry, and he mine.
    But let him from my thoughts. What think you, coz,
    Of this young Percy's pride? The prisoners
    Which he in this adventure hath surpris'd
    To his own use he keeps, and sends me word
    I shall have none but Mordake Earl of Fife.
  West. This is his uncle's teaching, this Worcester,
    Malevolent to you In all aspects,
    Which makes him prune himself and bristle up
    The crest of youth against your dignity.
  King. But I have sent for him to answer this;
    And for this cause awhile we must neglect
    Our holy purpose to Jerusalem.
    Cousin, on Wednesday next our council we
    Will hold at Windsor. So inform the lords;
    But come yourself with speed to us again;
    For more is to be said and to be done
    Than out of anger can be uttered.
  West. I will my liege.                                 Exeunt.




Scene II.
London. An apartment of the Prince's.

Enter Prince of Wales and Sir John Falstaff.

  Fal. Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?
  Prince. Thou art so fat-witted with drinking of old sack, and
    unbuttoning thee after supper, and sleeping upon benches after
    noon, that thou hast forgotten to demand that truly which thou
    wouldest truly know. What a devil hast thou to do with the time
    of the day, Unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons,
    and clocks the tongues of bawds, and dials the signs of leaping
    houses, and the blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in
    flame-coloured taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so
    superfluous to demand the time of the day.
  Fal. Indeed you come near me now, Hal; for we that take purses go
    by the moon And the seven stars, and not by Phoebus, he, that
    wand'ring knight so fair. And I prithee, sweet wag, when thou art
    king, as, God save thy Grace-Majesty I should say, for grace thou
    wilt have none-
  Prince. What, none?
  Fal. No, by my troth; not so much as will serve to be prologue to
    an egg and butter.
  Prince. Well, how then? Come, roundly, roundly.
  Fal. Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou art king, let not us that
    are squires of the night's body be called thieves of the day's
    beauty. Let us be Diana's Foresters, Gentlemen of the Shade,
    Minions of the Moon; and let men say we be men of good
    government, being governed as the sea is, by our noble and chaste
    mistress the moon, under whose countenance we steal.
  Prince. Thou sayest well, and it holds well too; for the fortune of
    us that are the moon's men doth ebb and flow like the sea, being
    governed, as the sea is, by the moon. As, for proof now: a purse
    of gold most resolutely snatch'd on Monday night and most
    dissolutely spent on Tuesday morning; got with swearing 'Lay by,'
    and spent with crying 'Bring in'; now ill as low an ebb as the
    foot of the ladder, and by-and-by in as high a flow as the ridge
    of the gallows.
  Fal. By the Lord, thou say'st true, lad- and is not my hostess of
    the tavern a most sweet wench?
  Prince. As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the castle- and is not
    a buff jerkin a most sweet robe of durance?
  Fal. How now, how now, mad wag? What, in thy quips and thy
    quiddities? What a plague have I to do with a buff jerkin?
  Prince. Why, what a pox have I to do with my hostess of the tavern?
  Fal. Well, thou hast call'd her to a reckoning many a time and oft.
  Prince. Did I ever call for thee to pay thy part?
  Fal. No; I'll give thee thy due, thou hast paid all there.
  Prince. Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my coin would stretch; and
    where it would not, I have used my credit.
  Fal. Yea, and so us'd it that, were it not here apparent that thou
    art heir apparent- But I prithee, sweet wag, shall there be
    gallows standing in England when thou art king? and resolution
    thus fubb'd as it is with the rusty curb of old father antic the
    law? Do not thou, when thou art king, hang a thief.
  Prince. No; thou shalt.
  Fal. Shall I? O rare! By the Lord, I'll be a brave judge.
  Prince. Thou judgest false already. I mean, thou shalt have the
    hanging of the thieves and so become a rare hangman.
  Fal. Well, Hal, well; and in some sort it jumps with my humour as
    well as waiting in the court, I can tell you.
  Prince. For obtaining of suits?
  Fal. Yea, for obtaining of suits, whereof the hangman hath no lean
    wardrobe. 'Sblood, I am as melancholy as a gib-cat or a lugg'd
    bear.
  Prince. Or an old lion, or a lover's lute.
  Fal. Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire bagpipe.
  Prince. What sayest thou to a hare, or the melancholy of Moor
    Ditch?
  Fal. Thou hast the most unsavoury similes, and art indeed the most
    comparative, rascalliest, sweet young prince. But, Hal, I prithee
    trouble me no more with vanity. I would to God thou and I knew
    where a commodity of good names were to be bought. An old lord of
    the Council rated me the other day in the street about you, sir,
    but I mark'd him not; and yet he talked very wisely, but I
    regarded him not; and yet he talk'd wisely, and in the street
    too.
  Prince. Thou didst well; for wisdom cries out in the streets, and
    no man regards it.
  Fal. O, thou hast damnable iteration, and art indeed able to
    corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm upon me, Hal- God
    forgive thee for it! Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing; and
    now am I, if a man should speak truly, little better than one of
    the wicked. I must give over this life, and I will give it over!
    By the Lord, an I do not, I am a villain! I'll be damn'd for
    never a king's son in Christendom.
  Prince. Where shall we take a purse tomorrow, Jack?
  Fal. Zounds, where thou wilt, lad! I'll make one. An I do not, call
    me villain and baffle me.
  Prince. I see a good amendment of life in thee- from praying to
    purse-taking.
  Fal. Why, Hal, 'tis my vocation, Hal. 'Tis no sin for a man to
    labour in his vocation.

                             Enter Poins.

    Poins! Now shall we know if Gadshill have set a match. O, if men
    were to be saved by merit, what hole in hell were hot enough for
    him? This is the most omnipotent villain that ever cried 'Stand!'
    to a true man.
  Prince. Good morrow, Ned.
  Poins. Good morrow, sweet Hal. What says Monsieur Remorse? What
    says Sir John Sack and Sugar? Jack, how agrees the devil and thee
    about thy soul, that thou soldest him on Good Friday last for a
    cup of Madeira and a cold capon's leg?
  Prince. Sir John stands to his word, the devil shall have his
    bargain; for he was never yet a breaker of proverbs. He will give
    the devil his due.
  Poins. Then art thou damn'd for keeping thy word with the devil.
  Prince. Else he had been damn'd for cozening the devil.
  Poins. But, my lads, my lads, to-morrow morning, by four o'clock
    early, at Gadshill! There are pilgrims gong to Canterbury with
    rich offerings, and traders riding to London with fat purses. I
    have vizards for you all; you have horses for yourselves.
    Gadshill lies to-night in Rochester. I have bespoke supper
    to-morrow night in Eastcheap. We may do it as secure as sleep. If
    you will go, I will stuff your purses full of crowns; if you will
    not, tarry at home and be hang'd!
  Fal. Hear ye, Yedward: if I tarry at home and go not, I'll hang you
    for going.
  Poins. You will, chops?
  Fal. Hal, wilt thou make one?
  Prince. Who, I rob? I a thief? Not I, by my faith.
  Fal. There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee,
    nor thou cam'st not of the blood royal if thou darest not stand
    for ten shillings.
  Prince. Well then, once in my days I'll be a madcap.
  Fal. Why, that's well said.
  Prince. Well, come what will, I'll tarry at home.
  Fal. By the Lord, I'll be a traitor then, when thou art king.
  Prince. I care not.
  Poins. Sir John, I prithee, leave the Prince and me alone. I will
    lay him down such reasons for this adventure that he shall go.
  Fal. Well, God give thee the spirit of persuasion and him the ears
    of profiting, that what thou speakest may move and what he hears
    may be believed, that the true prince may (for recreation sake)
    prove a false thief; for the poor abuses of the time want
    countenance. Farewell; you shall find me in Eastcheap.
  Prince. Farewell, thou latter spring! farewell, All-hallown summer!
                                                  Exit Falstaff.
  Poins. Now, my good sweet honey lord, ride with us to-morrow. I
    have a jest to execute that I cannot manage alone. Falstaff,
    Bardolph, Peto, and Gadshill shall rob those men that we have
    already waylaid; yourself and I will not be there; and when they
    have the booty, if you and I do not rob them, cut this head off
    from my shoulders.
  Prince. How shall we part with them in setting forth?
  Poins. Why, we will set forth before or after them and appoint them
    a place of meeting, wherein it is at our pleasure to fail; and
    then will they adventure upon the exploit themselves; which they
    shall have no sooner achieved, but we'll set upon them.
  Prince. Yea, but 'tis like that they will know us by our horses, by
    our habits, and by every other appointment, to be ourselves.
  Poins. Tut! our horses they shall not see- I'll tie them in the
    wood; our wizards we will change after we leave them; and,
    sirrah, I have cases of buckram for the nonce, to immask our
    noted outward garments.
  Prince. Yea, but I doubt they will be too hard for us.
  Poins. Well, for two of them, I know them to be as true-bred
    cowards as ever turn'd back; and for the third, if he fight
    longer than he sees reason, I'll forswear arms. The virtue of
    this jest will lie the incomprehensible lies that this same fat
    rogue will tell us when we meet at supper: how thirty, at least,
    he fought with; what wards, what blows, what extremities he
    endured; and in the reproof of this lies the jest.
  Prince. Well, I'll go with thee. Provide us all things necessary
    and meet me to-night in Eastcheap. There I'll sup. Farewell.
  Poins. Farewell, my lord.                                Exit.
  Prince. I know you all, and will awhile uphold
    The unyok'd humour of your idleness.
    Yet herein will I imitate the sun,
    Who doth permit the base contagious clouds
    To smother up his beauty from the world,
    That, when he please again to lie himself,
    Being wanted, he may be more wond'red at
    By breaking through the foul and ugly mists
    Of vapours that did seem to strangle him.
    If all the year were playing holidays,
    To sport would be as tedious as to work;
    But when they seldom come, they wish'd-for come,
    And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents.
    So, when this loose behaviour I throw off
    And pay the debt I never promised,
    By how much better than my word I am,
    By so much shall I falsify men's hopes;
    And, like bright metal on a sullen ground,
    My reformation, glitt'ring o'er my fault,
    Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes
    Than that which hath no foil to set it off.
    I'll so offend to make offence a skill,
    Redeeming time when men think least I will.            Exit.




Scene III.
London. The Palace.

Enter the King, Northumberland, Worcester, Hotspur, Sir Walter Blunt,
with others.

  King. My blood hath been too cold and temperate,
    Unapt to stir at these indignities,
    And you have found me, for accordingly
    You tread upon my patience; but be sure
    I will from henceforth rather be myself,
    Mighty and to be fear'd, than my condition,
    Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down,
    And therefore lost that title of respect
    Which the proud soul ne'er pays but to the proud.
  Wor. Our house, my sovereign liege, little deserves
    The scourge of greatness to be us'd on it-
    And that same greatness too which our own hands
    Have holp to make so portly.
  North. My lord-
  King. Worcester, get thee gone; for I do see
    Danger and disobedience in thine eye.
    O, sir, your presence is too bold and peremptory,
    And majesty might never yet endure
    The moody frontier of a servant brow.
    Tou have good leave to leave us. When we need
    'Your use and counsel, we shall send for you.
                                                 Exit Worcester.
    You were about to speak.
  North. Yea, my good lord.
    Those prisoners in your Highness' name demanded
    Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took,
    Were, as he says, not with such strength denied
    As is delivered to your Majesty.
    Either envy, therefore, or misprision
    Is guilty of this fault, and not my son.
  Hot. My liege, I did deny no prisoners.
    But I remember, when the fight was done,
    When I was dry with rage and extreme toll,
    Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
    Came there a certain lord, neat and trimly dress'd,
    Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin new reap'd
    Show'd like a stubble land at harvest home.
    He was perfumed like a milliner,
    And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
    A pouncet box, which ever and anon
    He gave his nose, and took't away again;
    Who therewith angry, when it next came there,
    Took it in snuff; and still he smil'd and talk'd;
    And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,
    He call'd them untaught knaves, unmannerly,
    To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse
    Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
    With many holiday and lady terms
    He questioned me, amongst the rest demanded
    My prisoners in your Majesty's behalf.
    I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold,
    To be so pest'red with a popingay,
    Out of my grief and my impatience
    Answer'd neglectingly, I know not what-
    He should, or he should not; for he made me mad
    To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,
    And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman
    Of guns and drums and wounds- God save the mark!-
    And telling me the sovereignest thing on earth
    Was parmacity for an inward bruise;
    And that it was great pity, so it was,
    This villanous saltpetre should be digg'd
    Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
    Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd
    So cowardly; and but for these vile 'guns,
    He would himself have been a soldier.
    This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord,
    I answered indirectly, as I said,
    And I beseech you, let not his report
    Come current for an accusation
    Betwixt my love and your high majesty.
  Blunt. The circumstance considered, good my lord,
    Whate'er Lord Harry Percy then had said
    To such a person, and in such a place,
    At such a time, with all the rest retold,
    May reasonably die, and never rise
    To do him wrong, or any way impeach
    What then he said, so he unsay it now.
  King. Why, yet he doth deny his prisoners,
    But with proviso and exception,
    That we at our own charge shall ransom straight
    His brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer;
    Who, on my soul, hath wilfully betray'd
    The lives of those that he did lead to fight
    Against that great magician, damn'd Glendower,
    Whose daughter, as we hear, the Earl of March
    Hath lately married. Shall our coffers, then,
    Be emptied to redeem a traitor home?
    Shall we buy treason? and indent with fears
    When they have lost and forfeited themselves?
    No, on the barren mountains let him starve!
    For I shall never hold that man my friend
    Whose tongue shall ask me for one penny cost
    To ransom home revolted Mortimer.
  Hot. Revolted Mortimer?
    He never did fall off, my sovereign liege,
    But by the chance of war. To prove that true
    Needs no more but one tongue for all those wounds,
    Those mouthed wounds, which valiantly he took
    When on the gentle Severn's sedgy bank,
    In single opposition hand to hand,
    He did confound the best part of an hour
    In changing hardiment with great Glendower.
    Three times they breath'd, and three times did they drink,
    Upon agreement, of swift Severn's flood;
    Who then, affrighted with their bloody looks,
    Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds
    And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank,
    Bloodstained with these valiant cohabitants.
    Never did base and rotten policy
    Colour her working with such deadly wounds;
    Nor never could the noble Mortimer
    Receive so many, and all willingly.
    Then let not him be slandered with revolt.
  King. Thou dost belie him, Percy, thou dost belie him!
    He never did encounter with Glendower.
    I tell thee
    He durst as well have met the devil alone
    As Owen Glendower for an enemy.
    Art thou not asham'd? But, sirrah, henceforth
    Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer.
    Send me your prisoners with the speediest means,
    Or you shall hear in such a kind from me
    As will displease you. My Lord Northumberland,
    We license your departure with your son.-
    Send us your prisoners, or you will hear of it.
                                 Exeunt King, [Blunt, and Train]
  Hot. An if the devil come and roar for them,
    I will not send them. I will after straight
    And tell him so; for I will else my heart,
    Albeit I make a hazard of my head.
  North. What, drunk with choler? Stay, and pause awhile.
    Here comes your uncle.

                          Enter Worcester.

  Hot. Speak of Mortimer?
    Zounds, I will speak of him, and let my soul
    Want mercy if I do not join with him!
    Yea, on his part I'll empty all these veins,
    And shed my dear blood drop by drop in the dust,
    But I will lift the downtrod Mortimer
    As high in the air as this unthankful king,
    As this ingrate and cank'red Bolingbroke.
  North. Brother, the King hath made your nephew mad.
  Wor. Who struck this heat up after I was gone?
  Hot. He will (forsooth) have all my prisoners;
    And when I urg'd the ransom once again
    Of my wive's brother, then his cheek look'd pale,
    And on my face he turn'd an eye of death,
    Trembling even at the name of Mortimer.
  Wor. I cannot blame him. Was not he proclaim'd
    By Richard that dead is, the next of blood?
  North. He was; I heard the proclamation.
    And then it was when the unhappy King
    (Whose wrongs in us God pardon!) did set forth
    Upon his Irish expedition;
    From whence he intercepted did return
    To be depos'd, and shortly murdered.
  Wor. And for whose death we in the world's wide mouth
    Live scandaliz'd and foully spoken of.
  Hot. But soft, I pray you. Did King Richard then
    Proclaim my brother Edmund Mortimer
    Heir to the crown?
  North. He did; myself did hear it.
  Hot. Nay, then I cannot blame his cousin king,
    That wish'd him on the barren mountains starve.
    But shall it be that you, that set the crown
    Upon the head of this forgetful man,
    And for his sake wear the detested blot
    Of murtherous subornation- shall it be
    That you a world of curses undergo,
    Being the agents or base second means,
    The cords, the ladder, or the hangman rather?
    O, pardon me that I descend so low
    To show the line and the predicament
    Wherein you range under this subtile king!
    Shall it for shame be spoken in these days,
    Or fill up chronicles in time to come,
    That men of your nobility and power
    Did gage them both in an unjust behalf
    (As both of you, God pardon it! have done)
    To put down Richard, that sweet lovely rose,
    And plant this thorn, this canker, Bolingbroke?
    And shall it in more shame be further spoken
    That you are fool'd, discarded, and shook off
    By him for whom these shames ye underwent?
    No! yet time serves wherein you may redeem
    Your banish'd honours and restore yourselves
    Into the good thoughts of the world again;
    Revenge the jeering and disdain'd contempt
    Of this proud king, who studies day and night
    To answer all the debt he owes to you
    Even with the bloody payment of your deaths.
    Therefore I say-
  Wor. Peace, cousin, say no more;
    And now, I will unclasp a secret book,
    And to your quick-conceiving discontents
    I'll read you matter deep and dangerous,
    As full of peril and adventurous spirit
    As to o'erwalk a current roaring loud
    On the unsteadfast footing of a spear.
  Hot. If he fall in, good night, or sink or swim!
    Send danger from the east unto the west,
    So honour cross it from the north to south,
    And let them grapple. O, the blood more stirs
    To rouse a lion than to start a hare!
  North. Imagination of some great exploit
    Drives him beyond the bounds of patience.
  Hot. By heaven, methinks it were an easy leap
    To pluck bright honour from the pale-fac'd moon,
    Or dive into the bottom of the deep,
    Where fadom line could never touch the ground,
    And pluck up drowned honour by the locks,
    So he that doth redeem her thence might wear
    Without corrival all her dignities;
    But out upon this half-fac'd fellowship!
  Wor. He apprehends a world of figures here,
    But not the form of what he should attend.
    Good cousin, give me audience for a while.
  Hot. I cry you mercy.
  Wor. Those same noble Scots
    That are your prisoners-
  Hot. I'll keep them all.
    By God, he shall not have a Scot of them!
    No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not.
    I'll keep them, by this hand!
  Wor. You start away.
    And lend no ear unto my purposes.
    Those prisoners you shall keep.
  Hot. Nay, I will! That is flat!
    He said he would not ransom Mortimer,
    Forbade my tongue to speak of Mortimer,
    But I will find him when he lies asleep,
    And in his ear I'll holloa 'Mortimer.'
    Nay;
    I'll have a starling shall be taught to speak
    Nothing but 'Mortimer,' and give it him
    To keep his anger still in motion.
  Wor. Hear you, cousin, a word.
  Hot. All studies here I solemnly defy
    Save how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke;
    And that same sword-and-buckler Prince of Wales-
    But that I think his father loves him not
    And would be glad he met with some mischance,
    I would have him poisoned with a pot of ale.
  Wor. Farewell, kinsman. I will talk to you
    When you are better temper'd to attend.
  North. Why, what a wasp-stung and impatient fool
    Art thou to break into this woman's mood,
    Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own!
  Hot. Why, look you, I am whipp'd and scourg'd with rods,
    Nettled, and stung with pismires when I hear
    Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke.
    In Richard's time- what do you call the place-
    A plague upon it! it is in GIoucestershire-
    'Twas where the madcap Duke his uncle kept-
    His uncle York- where I first bow'd my knee
    Unto this king of smiles, this Bolingbroke-
    'S blood!
    When you and he came back from Ravenspurgh-
  North. At Berkeley Castle.
  Hot. You say true.
    Why, what a candy deal of courtesy
    This fawning greyhound then did proffer me!
    Look, 'when his infant fortune came to age,'
    And 'gentle Harry Percy,' and 'kind cousin'-
    O, the devil take such cozeners!- God forgive me!
    Good uncle, tell your tale, for I have done.
  Wor. Nay, if you have not, to it again.
    We will stay your leisure.
  Hot. I have done, i' faith.
  Wor. Then once more to your Scottish prisoners.
    Deliver them up without their ransom straight,
    And make the Douglas' son your only mean
    For powers In Scotland; which, for divers reasons
    Which I shall send you written, be assur'd
    Will easily be granted. [To Northumberland] You, my lord,
    Your son in Scotland being thus employ'd,
    Shall secretly into the bosom creep
    Of that same noble prelate well-belov'd,
    The Archbishop.
  Hot. Of York, is it not?
  Wor. True; who bears hard
    His brother's death at Bristow, the Lord Scroop.
    I speak not this in estimation,
    As what I think might be, but what I know
    Is ruminated, plotted, and set down,
    And only stays but to behold the face
    Of that occasion that shall bring it on.
  Hot. I smell it. Upon my life, it will do well.
  North. Before the game is afoot thou still let'st slip.
  Hot. Why, it cannot choose but be a noble plot.
    And then the power of Scotland and of York
    To join with Mortimer, ha?
  Wor. And so they shall.
  Hot. In faith, it is exceedingly well aim'd.
  Wor. And 'tis no little reason bids us speed,
    To save our heads by raising of a head;
    For, bear ourselves as even as we can,
    The King will always think him in our debt,
    And think we think ourselves unsatisfied,
    Till he hath found a time to pay us home.
    And see already how he doth begin
    To make us strangers to his looks of love.
  Hot. He does, he does! We'll be reveng'd on him.
  Wor. Cousin, farewell. No further go in this
    Than I by letters shall direct your course.
    When time is ripe, which will be suddenly,
    I'll steal to Glendower and Lord Mortimer,
    Where you and Douglas, and our pow'rs at once,
    As I will fashion it, shall happily meet,
    To bear our fortunes in our own strong arms,
    Which now we hold at much uncertainty.
  North. Farewell, good brother. We shall thrive, I trust.
  Hot. Uncle, adieu. O, let the hours be short
    Till fields and blows and groans applaud our sport!    Exeunt.




<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
COMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANY
SERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP.>>



ACT II. Scene I.
Rochester. An inn yard.

Enter a Carrier with a lantern in his hand.

  1. Car. Heigh-ho! an it be not four by the day, I'll be hang'd.
    Charles' wain is over the new chimney, and yet our horse not
    pack'd.- What, ostler!
  Ost. [within] Anon, anon.
  1. Car. I prithee, Tom, beat Cut's saddle, put a few flocks in the
    point. Poor jade is wrung in the withers out of all cess.

                        Enter another Carrier.

  2. Car. Peas and beans are as dank here as a dog, and that is the
    next way to give poor jades the bots. This house is turned upside
    down since Robin Ostler died.
  1. Car. Poor fellow never joyed since the price of oats rose. It
    was the death of him.
  2. Car. I think this be the most villanous house in all London road
    for fleas. I am stung like a tench.
  1. Car. Like a tench I By the mass, there is ne'er a king christen
    could be better bit than I have been since the first cock.
  2. Car. Why, they will allow us ne'er a jordan, and then we leak in
    your chimney, and your chamber-lye breeds fleas like a loach.
  1. Car. What, ostler! come away and be hang'd! come away!
  2. Car. I have a gammon of bacon and two razes of ginger, to be
    delivered as far as Charing Cross.
  1. Car. God's body! the turkeys in my pannier are quite starved.
    What, ostler! A plague on thee! hast thou never an eye in thy
    head? Canst not hear? An 'twere not as good deed as drink to
    break the pate on thee, I am a very villain. Come, and be hang'd!
    Hast no faith in thee?

                           Enter Gadshill.

  Gads. Good morrow, carriers. What's o'clock?
  1. Car. I think it be two o'clock.
  Gads. I prithee lend me this lantern to see my gelding in the
    stable.
  1. Car. Nay, by God, soft! I know a trick worth two of that,
    i' faith.
  Gads. I pray thee lend me thine.
  2. Car. Ay, when? canst tell? Lend me thy lantern, quoth he? Marry,
    I'll see thee hang'd first!
  Gads. Sirrah carrier, what time do you mean to come to London?
  2. Car. Time enough to go to bed with a candle, I warrant thee.
    Come, neighbour Mugs, we'll call up the gentlemen. They will
    along with company, for they have great charge.
                                              Exeunt [Carriers].
  Gads. What, ho! chamberlain!

                            Enter Chamberlain.

  Cham. At hand, quoth pickpurse.
  Gads. That's even as fair as- 'at hand, quoth the chamberlain'; for
    thou variest no more from picking of purses than giving direction
    doth from labouring: thou layest the plot how.
  Cham. Good morrow, Master Gadshill. It holds current that I told
    you yesternight. There's a franklin in the Wild of Kent hath
    brought three hundred marks with him in gold. I heard him tell it
    to one of his company last night at supper- a kind of auditor;
    one that hath abundance of charge too, God knows what. They are
    up already and call for eggs and butter. They will away
    presently.
  Gads. Sirrah, if they meet not with Saint Nicholas' clerks, I'll
    give thee this neck.
  Cham. No, I'll none of it. I pray thee keep that for the hangman;
    for I know thou worshippest Saint Nicholas as truly as a man of
    falsehood may.
  Gads. What talkest thou to me of the hangman? If I hang, I'll make
    a fat pair of gallows; for if I hang, old Sir John hangs with me,
    and thou knowest he is no starveling. Tut! there are other
    Troyans that thou dream'st not of, the which for sport sake are
    content to do the profession some grace; that would (if matters
    should be look'd into) for their own credit sake make all whole.
    I am joined with no foot land-rakers, no long-staff sixpenny
    strikers, none of these mad mustachio purple-hued maltworms; but
    with nobility, and tranquillity, burgomasters and great oneyers,
    such as can hold in, such as will strike sooner than speak, and
    speak sooner than drink, and drink sooner than pray; and yet,
    zounds, I lie; for they pray continually to their saint, the
    commonwealth, or rather, not pray to her, but prey on her, for
    they ride up and down on her and make her their boots.
  Cham. What, the commonwealth their boots? Will she hold out water
    in foul way?
  Gads. She will, she will! Justice hath liquor'd her. We steal as in
    a castle, cocksure. We have the receipt of fernseed, we walk
    invisible.
  Cham. Nay, by my faith, I think you are more beholding to the night
    than to fernseed for your walking invisible.
  Gads. Give me thy hand. Thou shalt have a share in our purchase, as
    I and a true man.
  Cham. Nay, rather let me have it, as you are a false thief.
  Gads. Go to; 'homo' is a common name to all men. Bid the ostler
    bring my gelding out of the stable. Farewell, you muddy knave.
                                                         Exeunt.




Scene II.
The highway near Gadshill.

Enter Prince and Poins.

  Poins. Come, shelter, shelter! I have remov'd Falstaff's horse, and
    he frets like a gumm'd velvet.
  Prince. Stand close.                        [They step aside.]

                             Enter Falstaff.

  Fal. Poins! Poins, and be hang'd! Poins!
  Prince. I comes forward I Peace, ye fat-kidney'd rascal! What a
    brawling dost thou keep!
  Fal. Where's Poins, Hal?
  Prince. He is walk'd up to the top of the hill. I'll go seek him.
                                                  [Steps aside.]
  Fal. I am accurs'd to rob in that thief's company. The rascal hath
    removed my horse and tied him I know not where. If I travel but
    four foot by the squire further afoot, I shall break my wind.
    Well, I doubt not but to die a fair death for all this, if I
    scape hanging for killing that rogue. I have forsworn his company
    hourly any time this two-and-twenty years, and yet I am bewitch'd
    with the rogue's company. If the rascal have not given me
    medicines to make me love him, I'll be hang'd. It could not be
    else. I have drunk medicines. Poins! Hal! A plague upon you both!
    Bardolph! Peto! I'll starve ere I'll rob a foot further. An
    'twere not as good a deed as drink to turn true man and to leave
    these rogues, I am the veriest varlet that ever chewed with a
    tooth. Eight yards of uneven ground is threescore and ten miles
    afoot with me, and the stony-hearted villains know it well
    enough. A plague upon it when thieves cannot be true one to
    another! (They whistle.) Whew! A plague upon you all! Give me my
    horse, you rogues! give me my horse and be hang'd!
  Prince. [comes forward] Peace, ye fat-guts! Lie down, lay thine ear
    close to the ground, and list if thou canst hear the tread of
    travellers.
  Fal. Have you any levers to lift me up again, being down? 'Sblood,
    I'll not bear mine own flesh so far afoot again for all the coin
    in thy father's exchequer. What a plague mean ye to colt me thus?
  Prince. Thou liest; thou art not colted, thou art uncolted.
  Fal. I prithee, good Prince Hal, help me to my horse, good king's
    son.
  Prince. Out, ye rogue! Shall I be your ostler?
  Fal. Go hang thyself in thine own heir-apparent garters! If I be
    ta'en, I'll peach for this. An I have not ballads made on you
    all, and sung to filthy tunes, let a cup of sack be my poison.
    When a jest is so forward- and afoot too- I hate it.

             Enter Gadshill, [Bardolph and Peto with him].

  Gads. Stand!
  Fal. So I do, against my will.
  Poins. [comes fortward] O, 'tis our setter. I know his voice.
    Bardolph, what news?
  Bar. Case ye, case ye! On with your vizards! There's money of the
    King's coming down the hill; 'tis going to the King's exchequer.
  Fal. You lie, ye rogue! 'Tis going to the King's tavern.
  Gads. There's enough to make us all.
  Fal. To be hang'd.
  Prince. Sirs, you four shall front them in the narrow lane; Ned
    Poins and I will walk lower. If they scape from your encounter,
    then they light on us.
  Peto. How many be there of them?
  Gads. Some eight or ten.
  Fal. Zounds, will they not rob us?
  Prince. What, a coward, Sir John Paunch?
  Fal. Indeed, I am not John of Gaunt, your grandfather; but yet no
    coward, Hal.
  Prince. Well, we leave that to the proof.
  Poins. Sirrah Jack, thy horse stands behind the hedge. When thou
    need'st him, there thou shalt find him. Farewell and stand fast.
  Fal. Now cannot I strike him, if I should be hang'd.
  Prince. [aside to Poins] Ned, where are our disguises?
  Poins. [aside to Prince] Here, hard by. Stand close.
                                      [Exeunt Prince and Poins.]
  Fal. Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say I. Every man to
    his business.

                         Enter the Travellers.

  Traveller. Come, neighbour.
    The boy shall lead our horses down the hill;
    We'll walk afoot awhile and ease our legs.
  Thieves. Stand!
  Traveller. Jesus bless us!
  Fal. Strike! down with them! cut the villains' throats! Ah,
    whoreson caterpillars! bacon-fed knaves! they hate us youth. Down
    with them! fleece them!
  Traveller. O, we are undone, both we and ours for ever!
  Fal. Hang ye, gorbellied knaves, are ye undone? No, ye fat chuffs;
    I would your store were here! On, bacons on! What, ye knaves!
    young men must live. You are grandjurors, are ye? We'll jure ye,
    faith!
                            Here they rob and bind them. Exeunt.

            Enter the Prince and Poins [in buckram suits].

  Prince. The thieves have bound the true men. Now could thou and I
    rob the thieves and go merrily to London, it would be argument
    for a week, laughter for a month, and a good jest for ever.
  Poins. Stand close! I hear them coming.
                                             [They stand aside.]

                       Enter the Thieves again.

  Fal. Come, my masters, let us share, and then to horse before day.
    An the Prince and Poins be not two arrant cowards, there's no
    equity stirring. There's no more valour in that Poins than in a
    wild duck.

        [As they are sharing, the Prince and Poins set upon
        them. THey all run away, and Falstaff, after a blow or
        two, runs awasy too, leaving the booty behind them.]

  Prince. Your money!
  Poins. Villains!

  Prince. Got with much ease. Now merrily to horse.
    The thieves are scattered, and possess'd with fear
    So strongly that they dare not meet each other.
    Each takes his fellow for an officer.
    Away, good Ned. Falstaff sweats to death
    And lards the lean earth as he walks along.
    Were't not for laughing, I should pity him.
  Poins. How the rogue roar'd!                           Exeunt.




Scene III.
Warkworth Castle.

Enter Hotspur solus, reading a letter.

  Hot. 'But, for mine own part, my lord, I could be well contented to
    be there, in respect of the love I bear your house.' He could be
    contented- why is he not then? In respect of the love he bears
    our house! He shows in this he loves his own barn better than he
    loves our house. Let me see some more. 'The purpose you undertake
    is dangerous'- Why, that's certain! 'Tis dangerous to take a
    cold, to sleep, to drink; but I tell you, my lord fool, out of
    this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety. 'The purpose
    you undertake is dangerous, the friends you have named uncertain,
    the time itself unsorted, and your whole plot too light for the
    counterpoise of so great an opposition.' Say you so, say you so?
    I say unto you again, you are a shallow, cowardly hind, and you
    lie. What a lack-brain is this! By the Lord, our plot is a good
    plot as ever was laid; our friends true and constant: a good
    plot, good friends, and full of expectation; an excellent plot,
    very good friends. What a frosty-spirited rogue is this! Why, my
    Lord of York commends the plot and the general course of the
    action. Zounds, an I were now by this rascal, I could brain him
    with his lady's fan. Is there not my father, my uncle, and
    myself; Lord Edmund Mortimer, my Lord of York, and Owen
    Glendower? Is there not, besides, the Douglas? Have I not all
    their letters to meet me in arms by the ninth of the next month,
    and are they not some of them set forward already? What a pagan
    rascal is this! an infidel! Ha! you shall see now, in very
    sincerity of fear and cold heart will he to the King and lay open
    all our proceedings. O, I could divide myself and go to buffets
    for moving such a dish of skim milk with so honourable an action!
    Hang him, let him tell the King! we are prepared. I will set
    forward to-night.

                         Enter his Lady.

    How now, Kate? I must leave you within these two hours.
  Lady. O my good lord, why are you thus alone?
    For what offence have I this fortnight been
    A banish'd woman from my Harry's bed,
    Tell me, sweet lord, what is't that takes from thee
    Thy stomach, pleasure, and thy golden sleep?
    Why dost thou bend thine eyes upon the earth,
    And start so often when thou sit'st alone?
    Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks
    And given my treasures and my rights of thee
    To thick-ey'd musing and curs'd melancholy?
    In thy faint slumbers I by thee have watch'd,
    And heard thee murmur tales of iron wars,
    Speak terms of manage to thy bounding steed,
    Cry 'Courage! to the field!' And thou hast talk'd
    Of sallies and retires, of trenches, tent,
    Of palisadoes, frontiers, parapets,
    Of basilisks, of cannon, culverin,
    Of prisoners' ransom, and of soldiers slain,
    And all the currents of a heady fight.
    Thy spirit within thee hath been so at war,
    And thus hath so bestirr'd thee in thy sleep,
    That beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow
    Like bubbles ill a late-disturbed stream,
    And in thy face strange motions have appear'd,
    Such as we see when men restrain their breath
    On some great sudden hest. O, what portents are these?
    Some heavy business hath my lord in hand,
    And I must know it, else he loves me not.
  Hot. What, ho!

                    [Enter a Servant.]

    Is Gilliams with the packet gone?
  Serv. He is, my lord, an hour ago.
  Hot. Hath Butler brought those horses from the sheriff?
  Serv. One horse, my lord, he brought even now.
  Hot. What horse? A roan, a crop-ear, is it not?
  Serv. It is, my lord.
  Hot. That roan shall be my throne.
    Well, I will back him straight. O esperance!
    Bid Butler lead him forth into the park.
                                                 [Exit Servant.]
  Lady. But hear you, my lord.
  Hot. What say'st thou, my lady?
  Lady. What is it carries you away?
  Hot. Why, my horse, my love- my horse!
  Lady. Out, you mad-headed ape!
    A weasel hath not such a deal of spleen
    As you are toss'd with. In faith,
    I'll know your business, Harry; that I will!
    I fear my brother Mortimer doth stir
    About his title and hath sent for you
    To line his enterprise; but if you go-
  Hot. So far afoot, I shall be weary, love.
  Lady. Come, come, you paraquito, answer me
    Directly unto this question that I ask.
    I'll break thy little finger, Harry,
    An if thou wilt not tell my all things true.
  Hot. Away.
    Away, you trifler! Love? I love thee not;
    I care not for thee, Kate. This is no world
    To play with mammets and to tilt with lips.
    We must have bloody noses and crack'd crowns,
    And pass them current too. Gods me, my horse!
    What say'st thou, Kate? What wouldst thou have with me?
  Lady. Do you not love me? do you not indeed?
    Well, do not then; for since you love me not,
    I will not love myself. Do you not love me?
    Nay, tell me if you speak in jest or no.
  Hot. Come, wilt thou see me ride?
    And when I am a-horseback, I will swear
    I love thee infinitely. But hark you. Kate:
    I must not have you henceforth question me
    Whither I go, nor reason whereabout.
    Whither I must, I must; and to conclude,
    This evening must I leave you, gentle Kate.
    I know you wise; but yet no farther wise
    Than Harry Percy's wife; constant you are,
    But yet a woman; and for secrecy,
    No lady closer, for I well believe
    Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know,
    And so far will I trust thee, gentle Kate.
  Lady. How? so far?
  Hot. Not an inch further. But hark you, Kate:
    Whither I go, thither shall you go too;
    To-day will I set forth, to-morrow you.
    Will this content you, Kate,?
  Lady. It must of force.                                Exeunt.




Scene IV.
Eastcheap. The Boar's Head Tavern.

Enter Prince and Poins.

  Prince. Ned, prithee come out of that fat-room and lend me thy hand
    to laugh a little.
  Poins. Where hast been, Hal?
    Prince,. With three or four loggerheads amongst three or
    fourscore hogsheads. I have sounded the very bass-string of
    humility. Sirrah, I am sworn brother to a leash of drawers and
    can call them all by their christen names, as Tom, Dick, and
    Francis. They take it already upon their salvation that, though
    I be but Prince of Wales, yet I am the king of courtesy; and tell
    me flatly I am no proud Jack like Falstaff, but a Corinthian, a
    lad of mettle, a good boy (by the Lord, so they call me!), and
    when I am King of England I shall command all the good lads
    Eastcheap. They call drinking deep, dying scarlet; and when
    you breathe in your watering, they cry 'hem!' and bid you play it
    off. To conclude, I am so good a proficient in one quarter of an
    hour that I can drink with any tinker in his own language during
    my life. I tell thee, Ned, thou hast lost much honour that thou
    wert not with me in this action. But, sweet Ned- to sweeten which
    name of Ned, I give thee this pennyworth of sugar, clapp'd even
    now into my hand by an under-skinker, one that never spake other
    English in his life than 'Eight shillings and sixpence,' and 'You
    are welcome,' with this shrill addition, 'Anon, anon, sir! Score
    a pint of bastard in the Half-moon,' or so- but, Ned, to drive
    away the time till Falstaff come, I prithee do thou stand in some
    by-room while I question my puny drawer to what end be gave me
    the sugar; and do thou never leave calling 'Francis!' that his
    tale to me may be nothing but 'Anon!' Step aside, and I'll show
    thee a precedent.
  Poins. Francis!
  Prince. Thou art perfect.
  Poins. Francis!                                  [Exit Poins.]

                    Enter [Francis, a] Drawer.

  Fran. Anon, anon, sir.- Look down into the Pomgarnet, Ralph.
  Prince. Come hither, Francis.
  Fran. My lord?
  Prince. How long hast thou to serve, Francis?
  Fran. Forsooth, five years, and as much as to-
  Poins. [within] Francis!
  Fran. Anon, anon, sir.
  Prince. Five year! by'r Lady, a long lease for the clinking of
    Pewter. But, Francis, darest thou be so valiant as to play the
    coward with thy indenture and show it a fair pair of heels and
    run from it?
  Fran. O Lord, sir, I'll be sworn upon all the books in England I
    could find in my heart-
  Poins. [within] Francis!
  Fran. Anon, sir.
  Prince. How old art thou, Francis?
  Fran. Let me see. About Michaelmas next I shall be-
  Poins. [within] Francis!
  Fran. Anon, sir. Pray stay a little, my lord.
  Prince. Nay, but hark you, Francis. For the sugar thou gavest me-
    'twas a pennyworth, wast not?
  Fran. O Lord! I would it had been two!
  Prince. I will give thee for it a thousand pound. Ask me when thou
    wilt, and, thou shalt have it.
  Poins. [within] Francis!
  Fran. Anon, anon.
  Prince. Anon, Francis? No, Francis; but to-morrow, Francis; or,
    Francis, a Thursday; or indeed, Francis, when thou wilt. But
    Francis-
  Fran. My lord?
  Prince. Wilt thou rob this leathern-jerkin, crystal-button,
    not-pated, agate-ring, puke-stocking, caddis-garter,
    smooth-tongue, Spanish-pouch-
  Fran. O Lord, sir, who do you mean?
  Prince. Why then, your brown bastard is your only drink; for look
    you, Francis, your white canvas doublet will sully. In Barbary,
    sir, it cannot come to so much.
  Fran. What, sir?
  Poins. [within] Francis!
  Prince. Away, you rogue! Dost thou not hear them call?
              Here they both call him. The Drawer stands amazed,
                                    not knowing which way to go.

                         Enter Vintner.

  Vint. What, stand'st thou still, and hear'st such a calling? Look
    to the guests within. [Exit Francis.] My lord, old Sir John, with
    half-a-dozen more, are at the door. Shall I let them in?
  Prince. Let them alone awhile, and then open the door.
                                                  [Exit Vintner.]
    Poins!
  Poins. [within] Anon, anon, sir.

                          Enter Poins.

  Prince. Sirrah, Falstaff and the rest of the thieves are at the
    door. Shall we be merry?
  Poins. As merry as crickets, my lad. But hark ye; what cunning
    match have you made with this jest of the drawer? Come, what's
    the issue?
  Prince. I am now of all humours that have showed themselves humours
    since the old days of goodman Adam to the pupil age of this
    present this twelve o'clock at midnight.

                         [Enter Francis.]

    What's o'clock, Francis?
  Fran. Anon, anon, sir.                                 [Exit.]
  Prince. That ever this fellow should have fewer words than a
    parrot, and yet the son of a woman! His industry is upstairs and
    downstairs, his eloquence the parcel of a reckoning. I am not yet
    of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the North; he that kills me some
    six or seven dozen of Scots at a breakfast, washes his hands, and
    says to his wife, 'Fie upon this quiet life! I want work.' 'O my
    sweet Harry,' says she, 'how many hast thou  kill'd to-day?'
    'Give my roan horse a drench,' says he, and answers 'Some
    fourteen,' an hour after, 'a trifle, a trifle.' I prithee call in
    Falstaff. I'll play Percy, and that damn'd brawn shall play Dame
    Mortimer his wife. 'Rivo!' says the drunkard. Call in ribs, call
    in tallow.

           Enter Falstaff, [Gadshill, Bardolph, and Peto;
                   Francis follows with wine].

  Poins. Welcome, Jack. Where hast thou been?
  Fal. A plague of all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too! Marry and
    amen! Give me a cup of sack, boy. Ere I lead this life long, I'll
    sew nether-stocks, and mend them and foot them too. A plague of
    all cowards! Give me a cup of sack, rogue. Is there no virtue
    extant?
                                                    He drinketh.
  Prince. Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of butter?
    Pitiful-hearted butter, that melted at the sweet tale of the sun!
    If thou didst, then behold that compound.
  Fal. You rogue, here's lime in this sack too! There is nothing but
    roguery to be found in villanous man. Yet a coward is worse than
    a cup of sack with lime in it- a villanous coward! Go thy ways,
    old Jack, die when thou wilt; if manhood, good manhood, be not
    forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I a shotten herring.
    There lives not three good men unhang'd in England; and one of
    them is fat, and grows old. God help the while! A bad world, I
    say. I would I were a weaver; I could sing psalms or anything. A
    plague of all cowards I say still!
  Prince. How now, woolsack? What mutter you?
  Fal. A king's son! If I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a
    dagger of lath and drive all thy subjects afore thee like a flock
    of wild geese, I'll never wear hair on my face more. You Prince
    of Wales?
  Prince. Why, you whoreson round man, what's the matter?
  Fal. Are not you a coward? Answer me to that- and Poins there?
  Poins. Zounds, ye fat paunch, an ye call me coward, by the
    Lord, I'll stab thee.
  Fal. I call thee coward? I'll see thee damn'd ere I call thee
    coward, but I would give a thousand pound I could run as fast as
    thou canst. You are straight enough in the shoulders; you care
    not who sees Your back. Call you that backing of your friends? A
    plague upon such backing! Give me them that will face me. Give me
    a cup of sack. I am a rogue if I drunk to-day.
  Prince. O villain! thy lips are scarce wip'd since thou drunk'st
    last.
  Fal. All is one for that. (He drinketh.) A plague of all cowards
    still say I.
  Prince. What's the matter?
  Fal. What's the matter? There be four of us here have ta'en a
    thousand pound this day morning.
  Prince. Where is it, Jack? Where is it?
  Fal. Where is it, Taken from us it is. A hundred upon poor four of
    us!
  Prince. What, a hundred, man?
  Fal. I am a rogue if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them
    two hours together. I have scap'd by miracle. I am eight times
    thrust through the doublet, four through the hose; my buckler cut
    through and through; my sword hack'd like a handsaw- ecce signum!
    I never dealt better since I was a man. All would not do. A
    plague of all cowards! Let them speak, If they speak more or less
    than truth, they are villains and the sons of darkness.
  Prince. Speak, sirs. How was it?
  Gads. We four set upon some dozen-
  Fal. Sixteen at least, my lord.
  Gads. And bound them.
  Peto. No, no, they were not bound.
  Fal. You rogue, they were bound, every man of them, or I am a Jew
    else- an Ebrew Jew.
  Gads. As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men sea upon us-
  Fal. And unbound the rest, and then come in the other.
  Prince. What, fought you with them all?
  Fal. All? I know not what you call all, but if I fought not with
    fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish! If there were not two or
    three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then am I no two-legg'd
    creature.
  Prince. Pray God you have not murd'red some of them.
  Fal. Nay, that's past praying for. I have pepper'd two of them. Two
    I am sure I have paid, two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee
    what, Hal- if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse.
    Thou knowest my old ward. Here I lay, and thus I bore my point.
    Four rogues in buckram let drive at me.
  Prince. What, four? Thou saidst but two even now.
  Fal. Four, Hal. I told thee four.
  Poins. Ay, ay, he said four.
  Fal. These four came all afront and mainly thrust at me. I made me
    no more ado but took all their seven points in my target, thus.
  Prince. Seven? Why, there were but four even now.
  Fal. In buckram?
  Poins. Ay, four, in buckram suits.
  Fal. Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else.
  Prince. [aside to Poins] Prithee let him alone. We shall have more
    anon.
  Fal. Dost thou hear me, Hal?
  Prince. Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.
  Fal. Do so, for it is worth the list'ning to. These nine in buckram
    that I told thee of-
  Prince. So, two more already.
  Fal. Their points being broken-
  Poins. Down fell their hose.
  Fal. Began to give me ground; but I followed me close, came in,
    foot and hand, and with a thought seven of the eleven I paid.
  Prince. O monstrous! Eleven buckram men grown out of two!
  Fal. But, as the devil would have it, three misbegotten knaves in
    Kendal green came at my back and let drive at me; for it was so
    dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand.
  Prince. These lies are like their father that begets them- gross as
    a mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou clay-brain'd guts, thou
    knotty-pated fool, thou whoreson obscene greasy tallow-catch-
  Fal. What, art thou mad? art thou mad? Is not the truth the truth?
  Prince. Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal green when
    it was so dark thou couldst not see thy hand? Come, tell us your
    reason. What sayest thou to this?
  Poins. Come, your reason, Jack, your reason.
  Fal. What, upon compulsion? Zounds, an I were at the strappado or
    all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion.
    Give you a reason on compulsion? If reasons were as plentiful as
    blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion, I.
  Prince. I'll be no longer guilty, of this sin; this sanguine
    coward, this bed-presser, this horseback-breaker, this huge hill
    of flesh-
  Fal. 'Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried
    neat's-tongue, you bull's sizzle, you stockfish- O for breath to
    utter what is like thee!- you tailor's yard, you sheath, you
    bowcase, you vile standing tuck!
  Prince. Well, breathe awhile, and then to it again; and when thou
    hast tired thyself in base comparisons, hear me speak but this.
  Poins. Mark, Jack.
  Prince. We two saw you four set on four, and bound them and were
    masters of their wealth. Mark now how a plain tale shall put you
    down. Then did we two set on you four and, with a word, outfac'd
    you from your prize, and have it; yea, and can show it you here
    in the house. And, Falstaff, you carried your guts away as
    nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roar'd for mercy, and still
    run and roar'd, as ever I heard bullcalf. What a slave art thou
    to hack thy sword as thou hast done, and then say it was in
    fight! What trick, what device, what starting hole canst thou now
    find out to hide thee from this open and apparent shame?
  Poins. Come, let's hear, Jack. What trick hast thou now?
  Fal. By the Lord, I knew ye as well as he that made ye. Why, hear
    you, my masters. Was it for me to kill the heir apparent? Should
    I turn upon the true prince? Why, thou knowest I am as valiant as
    Hercules; but beware instinct. The lion will not touch the true
    prince. Instinct is a great matter. I was now a coward on
    instinct. I shall think the better of myself, and thee, during my
    life- I for a valiant lion, and thou for a true prince. But, by
    the Lord, lads, I am glad you have the money. Hostess, clap to
    the doors. Watch to-night, pray to-morrow. Gallants, lads, boys,
    hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellowship come to you!
    What, shall we be merry? Shall we have a play extempore?
  Prince. Content- and the argument shall be thy running away.
  Fal. Ah, no more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me!

                             Enter Hostess.

  Host. O Jesu, my lord the Prince!
  Prince. How now, my lady the hostess? What say'st thou to me?
  Host. Marry, my lord, there is a nobleman of the court at door
    would speak with you. He says he comes from your father.
  Prince. Give him as much as will make him a royal man, and send him
    back again to my mother.
  Fal. What manner of man is he?
  Host. An old man.
  Fal. What doth gravity out of his bed at midnight? Shall I give him
    his answer?
  Prince. Prithee do, Jack.
  Fal. Faith, and I'll send him packing.
Exit.
  Prince. Now, sirs. By'r Lady, you fought fair; so did you, Peto; so
    did you, Bardolph. You are lions too, you ran away upon instinct,
    you will not touch the true prince; no- fie!
  Bard. Faith, I ran when I saw others run.
  Prince. Tell me now in earnest, how came Falstaff's sword so
    hack'd?
  Peto. Why, he hack'd it with his dagger, and said he would swear
    truth out of England but he would make you believe it was done in
    fight, and persuaded us to do the like.
  Bard. Yea, and to tickle our noses with speargrass to make them
    bleed, and then to beslubber our garments with it and swear it
    was the blood of true men. I did that I did not this seven year
    before- I blush'd to hear his monstrous devices.
  Prince. O villain! thou stolest a cup of sack eighteen years ago
    and wert taken with the manner, and ever since thou hast blush'd
    extempore. Thou hadst fire and sword on thy side, and yet thou
    ran'st away. What instinct hadst thou for it?
  Bard. My lord, do you see these meteors? Do you behold these
    exhalations?
  Prince. I do.
  Bard. What think you they portend?
  Prince. Hot livers and cold purses.
  Bard. Choler, my lord, if rightly taken.
  Prince. No, if rightly taken, halter.

                         Enter Falstaff.

    Here comes lean Jack; here comes bare-bone. How now, my sweet
    creature of bombast? How long is't ago, Jack, since thou sawest
    thine own knee?
  Fal. My own knee? When I was about thy years, Hal, I was not an
    eagle's talent in the waist; I could have crept into any
    alderman's thumb-ring. A plague of sighing and grief! It blows a
    man up like a bladder. There's villanous news abroad. Here was
    Sir John Bracy from your father. You must to the court in the
    morning. That same mad fellow of the North, Percy, and he of
    Wales that gave Amamon the bastinado, and made Lucifer cuckold,
    and swore the devil his true liegeman upon the cross of a Welsh
    hook- what a plague call you him?
  Poins. O, Glendower.
  Fal. Owen, Owen- the same; and his son-in-law Mortimer, and old
    Northumberland, and that sprightly Scot of Scots, Douglas, that
    runs a-horseback up a hill perpendicular-
  Prince. He that rides at high speed and with his pistol kills a
    sparrow flying.
  Fal. You have hit it.
  Prince. So did he never the sparrow.
  Fal. Well, that rascal hath good metal in him; he will not run.
  Prince. Why, what a rascal art thou then, to praise him so for
    running!
  Fal. A-horseback, ye cuckoo! but afoot he will not budge a foot.
  Prince. Yes, Jack, upon instinct.
  Fal. I grant ye, upon instinct. Well, he is there too, and one
    Mordake, and a thousand bluecaps more. Worcester is stol'n away
    to-night; thy father's beard is turn'd white with the news; you
    may buy land now as cheap as stinking mack'rel.
  Prince. Why then, it is like, if there come a hot June, and this
    civil buffeting hold, we shall buy maidenheads as they buy
    hobnails, by the hundreds.
  Fal. By the mass, lad, thou sayest true; it is like we shall have
    good trading that way. But tell me, Hal, art not thou horrible
    afeard? Thou being heir apparent, could the world pick thee out
    three such enemies again as that fiend Douglas, that spirit
    Percy, and that devil Glendower? Art thou not horribly afraid?
    Doth not thy blood thrill at it?
  Prince. Not a whit, i' faith. I lack some of thy instinct.
  Fal. Well, thou wilt be horribly chid to-morrow when thou comest to
    thy father. If thou love me, practise an answer.
  Prince. Do thou stand for my father and examine me upon the
    particulars of my life.
  Fal. Shall I? Content. This chair shall be my state, this dagger my
    sceptre, and this cushion my, crown.
  Prince. Thy state is taken for a join'd-stool, thy golden sceptre
    for a leaden dagger, and thy precious rich crown for a pitiful
    bald crown.
  Fal. Well, an the fire of grace be not quite out of thee, now shalt
    thou be moved. Give me a cup of sack to make my eyes look red,
    that it may be thought I have wept; for I must speak in passion,
    and I will do it in King Cambyses' vein.
  Prince. Well, here is my leg.
  Fal. And here is my speech. Stand aside, nobility.
  Host. O Jesu, this is excellent sport, i' faith!
  Fal. Weep not, sweet queen, for trickling tears are vain.
  Host. O, the Father, how he holds his countenance!
  Fal. For God's sake, lords, convey my tristful queen!
    For tears do stop the floodgates of her eyes.
  Host. O Jesu, he doth it as like one of these harlotry players as
    ever I see!
  Fal. Peace, good pintpot. Peace, good tickle-brain.- Harry, I do
    not only marvel where thou spendest thy time, but also how thou
    art accompanied. For though the camomile, the more it is trodden
    on, the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the
    sooner it wears. That thou art my son I have partly thy mother's
    word, partly my own opinion, but chiefly a villanous trick of
    thine eye and a foolish hanging of thy nether lip that doth
    warrant me. If then thou be son to me, here lies the point: why,
    being son to me, art thou so pointed at? Shall the blessed sun of
    heaven prove a micher and eat blackberries? A question not to be
    ask'd. Shall the son of England prove a thief and take purses? A
    question to be ask'd. There is a thing, Harry, which thou hast
    often heard of, and it is known to many in our land by the name
    of pitch. This pitch, as ancient writers do report, doth defile;
    so doth the company thou keepest. For, Harry, now I do not speak
    to thee in drink, but in tears; not in pleasure, but in passion;
    not in words only, but in woes also: and yet there is a virtuous
    man whom I have often noted in thy company, but I know not  his
    name.
  Prince. What manner of man, an it like your Majesty?
  Fal. A goodly portly man, i' faith, and a corpulent; of a cheerful
    look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage; and, as I think,
    his age some fifty, or, by'r Lady, inclining to threescore; and
    now I remember me, his name is Falstaff. If that man should be
    lewdly, given, he deceiveth me; for, Harry, I see virtue in his
    looks. If then the tree may be known by the fruit, as the fruit
    by the tree, then, peremptorily I speak it, there is virtue in
    that Falstaff. Him keep with, the rest banish. And tell me now,
    thou naughty varlet, tell me where hast thou been this month?
  Prince. Dost thou speak like a king? Do thou stand for me, and I'll
    play my father.
  Fal. Depose me? If thou dost it half so gravely, so majestically,
    both in word and matter, hang me up by the heels for a
    rabbit-sucker or a poulter's hare.
  Prince. Well, here I am set.
  Fal. And here I stand. Judge, my masters.
  Prince. Now, Harry, whence come you?
  Fal. My noble lord, from Eastcheap.
  Prince. The complaints I hear of thee are grievous.
  Fal. 'Sblood, my lord, they are false! Nay, I'll tickle ye for a
    young prince, i' faith.
  Prince. Swearest thou, ungracious boy? Henceforth ne'er look on me.
    Thou art violently carried away from grace. There is a devil
    haunts thee in the likeness of an old fat man; a tun of man is
    thy companion. Why dost thou converse with that trunk of humours,
    that bolting hutch of beastliness, that swoll'n parcel of
    dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that stuff'd cloakbag of
    guts, that roasted Manningtree ox with the pudding in his belly,
    that reverend vice, that grey iniquity, that father ruffian, that
    vanity in years? Wherein is he good, but to taste sack and drink
    it? wherein neat and cleanly, but to carve a capon and eat it?
    wherein cunning, but in craft? wherein crafty, but in villany?
    wherein villanous, but in all things? wherein worthy, but in
    nothing?
  Fal. I would your Grace would take me with you. Whom means your
    Grace?
  Prince. That villanous abominable misleader of youth, Falstaff,
    that old white-bearded Satan.
  Fal. My lord, the man I know.
  Prince. I know thou dost.
  Fal. But to say I know more harm in him than in myself were to say
    more than I know. That he is old (the more the pity) his white
    hairs do witness it; but that he is (saving your reverence) a
    whoremaster, that I utterly deny. If sack and sugar be a fault,
    God help the wicked! If to be old and merry be a sin, then many
    an old host that I know is damn'd. If to be fat be to be hated,
    then Pharaoh's lean kine are to be loved. No, my good lord.
    Banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poins; but for sweet Jack
    Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack
    Falstaff, and therefore more valiant being, as he is, old Jack
    Falstaff, banish not him thy Harry's company, banish not him thy
    Harry's company. Banish plump Jack, and banish all the world!
  Prince. I do, I will.                      [A knocking heard.]
                        [Exeunt Hostess, Francis, and Bardolph.]

                     Enter Bardolph, running.

  Bard. O, my lord, my lord! the sheriff with a most monstrous watch
    is at the door.
  Fal. Out, ye rogue! Play out the play. I have much to say in the
    behalf of that Falstaff.

                       Enter the Hostess.

  Host. O Jesu, my lord, my lord!
  Prince. Heigh, heigh, the devil rides upon a fiddlestick!
    What's the matter?
  Host. The sheriff and all the watch are at the door. They are come
    to search the house. Shall I let them in?
  Fal. Dost thou hear, Hal? Never call a true piece of gold a
    counterfeit. Thou art essentially mad without seeming so.
  Prince. And thou a natural coward without instinct.
  Fal. I deny your major. If you will deny the sheriff, so; if not,
    let him enter. If I become not a cart as well as another man, a
    plague on my bringing up! I hope I shall as soon be strangled
    with a halter as another.
  Prince. Go hide thee behind the arras. The rest walk, up above.
    Now, my masters, for a true face and good conscience.
  Fal. Both which I have had; but their date is out, and therefore
    I'll hide me.                                          Exit.
  Prince. Call in the sheriff.
                            [Exeunt Manent the Prince and Peto.]

                    Enter Sheriff and the Carrier.

    Now, Master Sheriff, what is your will with me?
  Sher. First, pardon me, my lord. A hue and cry
    Hath followed certain men unto this house.
  Prince. What men?
  Sher. One of them is well known, my gracious lord-
    A gross fat man.
  Carrier. As fat as butter.
  Prince. The man, I do assure you, is not here,
    For I myself at this time have employ'd him.
    And, sheriff, I will engage my word to thee
    That I will by to-morrow dinner time
    Send him to answer thee, or any man,
    For anything he shall be charg'd withal;
    And so let me entreat you leave the house.
  Sher. I will, my lord. There are two gentlemen
    Have in this robbery lost three hundred marks.
  Prince. It may be so. If he have robb'd these men,
    He shall be answerable; and so farewell.
  Sher. Good night, my noble lord.
  Prince. I think it is good morrow, is it not?
  Sher. Indeed, my lord, I think it be two o'clock.
                                            Exit [with Carrier].
  Prince. This oily rascal is known as well as Paul's. Go call him
    forth.
  Peto. Falstaff! Fast asleep behind the arras, and snorting like a
    horse.
  Prince. Hark how hard he fetches breath. Search his pockets.
            He searcheth his pockets and findeth certain papers.
    What hast thou found?
  Peto. Nothing but papers, my lord.
  Prince. Let's see whit they be. Read them.

  Peto. [reads] 'Item. A capon. . . . . . . . . . . . .  ii s. ii d.
                 Item, Sauce. . . . . . . . . . . . . .      iiii d.
                 Item, Sack two gallons . . . . . . . . v s. viii d.
                 Item, Anchovies and sack after supper.  ii s. vi d.
                 Item, Bread. . . . . . . . . . . . . .          ob.'

  Prince. O monstrous! but one halfpennyworth of bread to this
    intolerable deal of sack! What there is else, keep close; we'll
    read it at more advantage. There let him sleep till day. I'll to
    the court in the morning . We must all to the wars. and thy place
    shall be honourable. I'll procure this fat rogue a charge of
    foot; and I know, his death will be a march of twelve score. The
    money shall be paid back again with advantage. Be with me betimes
    in the morning, and so good morrow, Peto.
  Peto. Good morrow, good my lord.
                                                         Exeunt.




<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
COMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANY
SERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP.>>



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.




<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
COMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANY
SERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP.>>



ACT IV. Scene I.
The rebel camp near Shrewsbury.

Enter Harry Hotspur, Worcester, and Douglas.

  Hot. Well said, my noble Scot. If speaking truth
    In this fine age were not thought flattery,
    Such attribution should the Douglas have
    As not a soldier of this season's stamp
    Should go so general current through the world.
    By God, I cannot flatter, I defy
    The tongues of soothers! but a braver place
    In my heart's love hath no man than yourself.
    Nay, task me to my word; approve me, lord.
  Doug. Thou art the king of honour.
    No man so potent breathes upon the ground
    But I will beard him.

                     Enter one with letters.

  Hot. Do so, and 'tis well.-
    What letters hast thou there?- I can but thank you.
  Messenger. These letters come from your father.
  Hot. Letters from him? Why comes he not himself?
  Mess. He cannot come, my lord; he is grievous sick.
  Hot. Zounds! how has he the leisure to be sick
    In such a justling time? Who leads his power?
    Under whose government come they along?
  Mess. His letters bears his mind, not I, my lord.
  Wor. I prithee tell me, doth he keep his bed?
  Mess. He did, my lord, four days ere I set forth,
    And at the time of my departure thence
    He was much fear'd by his physicians.
  Wor. I would the state of time had first been whole
    Ere he by sickness had been visited.
    His health was never better worth than now.
  Hot. Sick now? droop now? This sickness doth infect
    The very lifeblood of our enterprise.
    'Tis catching hither, even to our camp.
    He writes me here that inward sickness-
    And that his friends by deputation could not
    So soon be drawn; no did he think it meet
    To lay so dangerous and dear a trust
    On any soul remov'd but on his own.
    Yet doth he give us bold advertisement,
    That with our small conjunction we should on,
    To see how fortune is dispos'd to us;
    For, as he writes, there is no quailing now,
    Because the King is certainly possess'd
    Of all our purposes. What say you to it?
  Wor. Your father's sickness is a maim to us.
  Hot. A perilous gash, a very limb lopp'd off.
    And yet, in faith, it is not! His present want
    Seems more than we shall find it. Were it good
    To set the exact wealth of all our states
    All at one cast? to set so rich a man
    On the nice hazard of one doubtful hour?
    It were not good; for therein should we read
    The very bottom and the soul of hope,
    The very list, the very utmost bound
    Of all our fortunes.
  Doug. Faith, and so we should;
    Where now remains a sweet reversion.
    We may boldly spend upon the hope of what
    Is to come in.
    A comfort of retirement lives in this.
  Hot. A rendezvous, a home to fly unto,
    If that the devil and mischance look big
    Upon the maidenhead of our affairs.
  Wor. But yet I would your father had been here.
    The quality and hair of our attempt
    Brooks no division. It will be thought
    By some that know not why he is away,
    That wisdom, loyalty, and mere dislike
    Of our proceedings kept the Earl from hence.
    And think how such an apprehension
    May turn the tide of fearful faction
    And breed a kind of question in our cause.
    For well you know we of the off'ring side
    Must keep aloof from strict arbitrement,
    And stop all sight-holes, every loop from whence
    The eye of reason may pry in upon us.
    This absence of your father's draws a curtain
    That shows the ignorant a kind of fear
    Before not dreamt of.
  Hot. You strain too far.
    I rather of his absence make this use:
    It lends a lustre and more great opinion,
    A larger dare to our great enterprise,
    Than if the Earl were here; for men must think,
    If we, without his help, can make a head
    To push against a kingdom, with his help
    We shall o'erturn it topsy-turvy down.
    Yet all goes well; yet all our joints are whole.
  Doug. As heart can think. There is not such a word
    Spoke of in Scotland as this term of fear.

                 Enter Sir Richard Vernon.

  Hot. My cousin Vernon! welcome, by my soul.
  Ver. Pray God my news be worth a welcome, lord.
    The Earl of Westmoreland, seven thousand strong,
    Is marching hitherwards; with him Prince John.
  Hot. No harm. What more?
  Ver. And further, I have learn'd
    The King himself in person is set forth,
    Or hitherwards intended speedily,
    With strong and mighty preparation.
  Hot. He shall be welcome too. Where is his son,
    The nimble-footed madcap Prince of Wales,
    And his comrades, that daff'd the world aside
    And bid it pass?
  Ver. All furnish'd, all in arms;
    All plum'd like estridges that with the wind
    Bated like eagles having lately bath'd;
    Glittering in golden coats like images;
    As full of spirit as the month of May
    And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer;
    Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls.
    I saw young Harry with his beaver on
    His cushes on his thighs, gallantly arm'd,
    Rise from the ground like feathered Mercury,
    And vaulted with such ease into his seat
    As if an angel dropp'd down from the clouds
    To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus
    And witch the world with noble horsemanship.
  Hot. No more, no more! Worse than the sun in March,
    This praise doth nourish agues. Let them come.
    They come like sacrifices in their trim,
    And to the fire-ey'd maid of smoky war
    All hot and bleeding Will we offer them.
    The mailed Mars Shall on his altar sit
    Up to the ears in blood. I am on fire
    To hear this rich reprisal is so nigh,
    And yet not ours. Come, let me taste my horse,
    Who is to bear me like a thunderbolt
    Against the bosom of the Prince of Wales.
    Harry to Harry shall, hot horse to horse,
    Meet, and ne'er part till one drop down a corse.
    that Glendower were come!
  Ver. There is more news.
    I learn'd in Worcester, as I rode along,
    He cannot draw his power this fourteen days.
  Doug. That's the worst tidings that I hear of yet.
  Wor. Ay, by my faith, that bears a frosty sound.
  Hot. What may the King's whole battle reach unto?
  Ver. To thirty thousand.
  Hot. Forty let it be.
    My father and Glendower being both away,
    The powers of us may serve so great a day.
    Come, let us take a muster speedily.
    Doomsday is near. Die all, die merrily.
  Doug. Talk not of dying. I am out of fear
    Of death or death's hand for this one half-year.
                                                         Exeunt.




Scene II.
A public road near Coventry.

Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.

  Fal. Bardolph, get thee before to Coventry; fill me a bottle of
    sack. Our soldiers shall march through. We'll to Sutton Co'fil'
    to-night.
  Bard. Will you give me money, Captain?
  Fal. Lay out, lay out.
  Bald. This bottle makes an angel.
  Fal. An if it do, take it for thy labour; an if it make twenty,
    take them all; I'll answer the coinage. Bid my lieutenant Peto
    meet me at town's end.
  Bard. I Will, Captain. Farewell.                         Exit.
  Fal. If I be not ashamed of my soldiers, I am a sous'd gurnet. I
    have misused the King's press damnably. I have got in exchange of
    a hundred and fifty soldiers, three hundred and odd pounds. I
    press me none but good householders, yeomen's sons; inquire me
    out contracted bachelors, such as had been ask'd twice on the
    banes- such a commodity of warm slaves as had as lieve hear the
    devil as a drum; such as fear the report of a caliver worse than
    a struck fowl or a hurt wild duck. I press'd me none but such
    toasts-and-butter, with hearts in their bellies no bigger than
    pins' heads, and they have bought out their services; and now my
    whole charge consists of ancients, corporals, lieutenants,
    gentlemen of companies- slaves as ragged as Lazarus in the
    painted cloth, where the glutton's dogs licked his sores; and
    such as indeed were never soldiers, but discarded unjust
    serving-men, younger sons to Younger brothers, revolted tapsters,
    and ostlers trade-fall'n; the cankers of a calm world and a long
    peace; ten times more dishonourable ragged than an old fac'd
    ancient; and such have I to fill up the rooms of them that have
    bought out their services that you would think that I had a
    hundred and fifty tattered Prodigals lately come from
    swine-keeping, from eating draff and husks. A mad fellow met me
    on the way, and told me I had unloaded all the gibbets and
    press'd the dead bodies. No eye hath seen such scarecrows. I'll
    not march through Coventry with them, that's flat. Nay, and the
    villains march wide betwixt the legs, as if they had gyves on;
    for indeed I had the most of them out of prison. There's but a
    shirt and a half in all my company; and the half-shirt is two
    napkins tack'd together and thrown over the shoulders like a
    herald's coat without sleeves; and the shirt, to say the truth,
    stol'n from my host at Saint Alban's, or the red-nose innkeeper
    of Daventry. But that's all one; they'll find linen enough on
    every hedge.

              Enter the Prince and the Lord of Westmoreland.

  Prince. How now, blown Jack? How now, quilt?
  Fal. What, Hal? How now, mad wag? What a devil dost thou in
    Warwickshire? My good Lord of Westmoreland, I cry you mercy. I
    thought your honour had already been at Shrewsbury.
  West. Faith, Sir John, 'tis more than time that I were there, and
    you too; but my powers are there already. The King, I can tell
    you, looks for us all. We must away all, to-night.
  Fal. Tut, never fear me. I am as vigilant as a cat to steal cream.
  Prince. I think, to steal cream indeed, for thy theft hath already
    made thee butter. But tell me, Jack, whose fellows are these that
    come after?
  Fal. Mine, Hal, mine.
  Prince. I did never see such pitiful rascals.
  Fal. Tut, tut! good enough to toss; food for powder, food for
    powder. They'll fill a pit as well as better. Tush, man, mortal
    men, mortal men.
  West. Ay, but, Sir John, methinks they are exceeding poor and bare-
    too beggarly.
  Fal. Faith, for their poverty, I know, not where they had that; and
    for their bareness, I am surd they never learn'd that of me.
  Prince. No, I'll be sworn, unless you call three fingers on the
    ribs bare. But, sirrah, make haste. Percy 's already in the
    field.
Exit.
  Fal. What, is the King encamp'd?
  West. He is, Sir John. I fear we shall stay too long.
                                                         [Exit.]
  Fal. Well,
    To the latter end of a fray and the beginning of a feast
    Fits a dull fighter and a keen guest.                  Exit.




Scene III.
The rebel camp near Shrewsbury.

Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Douglas, Vernon.

  Hot. We'll fight with him to-night.
  Wor. It may not be.
  Doug. You give him then advantage.
  Ver. Not a whit.
  Hot. Why say you so? Looks he no for supply?
  Ver. So do we.
  Hot. His is certain, ours 's doubtful.
  Wor. Good cousin, be advis'd; stir not to-night.
  Ver. Do not, my lord.
  Doug. You do not counsel well.
    You speak it out of fear and cold heart.
  Ver. Do me no slander, Douglas. By my life-
    And I dare well maintain it with my life-
    If well-respected honour bid me on
    I hold as little counsel with weak fear
    As you, my lord, or any Scot that this day lives.
    Let it be seen to-morrow in the battle
    Which of us fears.
  Doug. Yea, or to-night.
  Ver. Content.
  Hot. To-night, say I.
    Come, come, it may not be. I wonder much,
    Being men of such great leading as you are,
    That you foresee not what impediments
    Drag back our expedition. Certain horse
    Of my cousin Vernon's are not yet come up.
    Your uncle Worcester's horse came but to-day;
    And now their pride and mettle is asleep,
    Their courage with hard labour tame and dull,
    That not a horse is half the half of himself.
  Hot. So are the horses of the enemy,
    In general journey-bated and brought low.
    The better part of ours are full of rest.
  Wor. The number of the King exceedeth ours.
    For God's sake, cousin, stay till all come in.

              The trumpet sounds a parley.

                 Enter Sir Walter Blunt.

  Blunt. I come with gracious offers from the King,
    If you vouchsafe me hearing and respect.
  Hot. Welcome, Sir Walter Blunt, and would to God
    You were of our determination!
    Some of us love you well; and even those some
    Envy your great deservings and good name,
    Because you are not of our quality,
    But stand against us like an enemy.
  Blunt. And God defend but still I should stand so,
    So long as out of limit and true rule
    You stand against anointed majesty!
    But to my charge. The King hath sent to know
    The nature of your griefs; and whereupon
    You conjure from the breast of civil peace
    Such bold hostility, teaching his duteous land
    Audacious cruelty. If that the King
    Have any way your good deserts forgot,
    Which he confesseth to be manifold,
    He bids you name your griefs, and with all speed
    You shall have your desires with interest,
    And pardon absolute for yourself and these
    Herein misled by your suggestion.
  Hot. The King is kind; and well we know the King
    Knows at what time to promise, when to pay.
    My father and my uncle and myself
    Did give him that same royalty he wears;
    And when he was not six-and-twenty strong,
    Sick in the world's regard, wretched and low,
    A poor unminded outlaw sneaking home,
    My father gave him welcome to the shore;
    And when he heard him swear and vow to God
    He came but to be Duke of Lancaster,
    To sue his livery and beg his peace,
    With tears of innocency and terms of zeal,
    My father, in kind heart and pity mov'd,
    Swore him assistance, and performed it too.
    Now, when the lords and barons of the realm
    Perceiv'd Northumberland did lean to him,
    The more and less came in with cap and knee;
    Met him on boroughs, cities, villages,
    Attended him on bridges, stood in lanes,
    Laid gifts before him, proffer'd him their oaths,
    Give him their heirs as pages, followed him
    Even at the heels in golden multitudes.
    He presently, as greatness knows itself,
    Steps me a little higher than his vow
    Made to my father, while his blood was poor,
    Upon the naked shore at Ravenspurgh;
    And now, forsooth, takes on him to reform
    Some certain edicts and some strait decrees
    That lie too heavy on the commonwealth;
    Cries out upon abuses, seems to weep
    Over his country's wrongs; and by this face,
    This seeming brow of justice, did he win
    The hearts of all that he did angle for;
    Proceeded further- cut me off the heads
    Of all the favourites that the absent King
    In deputation left behind him here
    When he was personal in the Irish war.
    But. Tut! I came not to hear this.
  Hot. Then to the point.
    In short time after lie depos'd the King;
    Soon after that depriv'd him of his life;
    And in the neck of that task'd the whole state;
    To make that worse, suff'red his kinsman March
    (Who is, if every owner were well placid,
    Indeed his king) to be engag'd in Wales,
    There without ransom to lie forfeited;
    Disgrac'd me in my happy victories,
    Sought to entrap me by intelligence;
    Rated mine uncle from the Council board;
    In rage dismiss'd my father from the court;
    Broke an oath on oath, committed wrong on wrong;
    And in conclusion drove us to seek out
    This head of safety, and withal to pry
    Into his title, the which we find
    Too indirect for long continuance.
  Blunt. Shall I return this answer to the King?
  Hot. Not so, Sir Walter. We'll withdraw awhile.
    Go to the King; and let there be impawn'd
    Some surety for a safe return again,
    And In the morning early shall mine uncle
    Bring him our purposes; and so farewell.
  Blunt. I would you would accept of grace and love.
  Hot. And may be so we shall.
  Blunt. Pray God you do.
                                                         Exeunt.




Scene IV.
York. The Archbishop's Palace.

Enter the Archbishop of York and Sir Michael.

  Arch. Hie, good Sir Michael; bear this sealed brief
    With winged haste to the Lord Marshal;
    This to my cousin Scroop; and all the rest
    To whom they are directed. If you knew
    How much they do import, you would make haste.
  Sir M. My good lord,
    I guess their tenour.
  Arch. Like enough you do.
    To-morrow, good Sir Michael, is a day
    Wherein the fortune of ten thousand men
    Must bide the touch; for, sir, at Shrewsbury,
    As I am truly given to understand,
    The King with mighty and quick-raised power
    Meets with Lord Harry; and I fear, Sir Michael,
    What with the sickness of Northumberland,
    Whose power was in the first proportion,
    And what with Owen Glendower's absence thence,
    Who with them was a rated sinew too
    And comes not in, overrul'd by prophecies-
    I fear the power of Percy is too weak
    To wage an instant trial with the King.
  Sir M. Why, my good lord, you need not fear;
    There is Douglas and Lord Mortimer.
  Arch. No, Mortimer is not there.
  Sir M. But there is Mordake, Vernon, Lord Harry Percy,
    And there is my Lord of Worcester, and a head
    Of gallant warriors, noble gentlemen.
  Arch. And so there is; but yet the King hath drawn
    The special head of all the land together-
    The Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lancaster,
    The noble Westmoreland and warlike Blunt,
    And many moe corrivals and dear men
    Of estimation and command in arms.
  Sir M. Doubt not, my lord, they shall be well oppos'd.
  Arch. I hope no less, yet needful 'tis to fear;
    And, to prevent the worst, Sir Michael, speed.
    For if Lord Percy thrive not, ere the King
    Dismiss his power, he means to visit us,
    For he hath heard of our confederacy,
    And 'tis but wisdom to make strong against him.
    Therefore make haste. I must go write again
    To other friends; and so farewell, Sir Michael.
                                                         Exeunt.




<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
COMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANY
SERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP.>>



ACT V. Scene I.
The King's camp near Shrewsbury.

Enter the King, Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lancaster, Sir Walter Blunt,
Falstaff.

  King. How bloodily the sun begins to peer
    Above yon busky hill! The day looks pale
    At his distemp'rature.
  Prince. The southern wind
    Doth play the trumpet to his purposes
    And by his hollow whistling in the leaves
    Foretells a tempest and a blust'ring day.
  King. Theft with the losers let it sympathize,
    For nothing can seem foul to those that win.

     The trumpet sounds. Enter Worcester [and Vernon].

    How, now, my Lord of Worcester? 'Tis not well
    That you and I should meet upon such terms
    As now we meet. You have deceiv'd our trust
    And made us doff our easy robes of peace
    To crush our old limbs in ungentle steel.
    This is not well, my lord; this is not well.
    What say you to it? Will you again unknit
    This churlish knot of all-abhorred war,
    And move in that obedient orb again
    Where you did give a fair and natural light,
    And be no more an exhal'd meteor,
    A prodigy of fear, and a portent
    Of broached mischief to the unborn times?
  Wor. Hear me, my liege.
    For mine own part, I could be well content
    To entertain the lag-end of my life
    With quiet hours; for I do protest
    I have not sought the day of this dislike.
  King. You have not sought it! How comes it then,
  Fal. Rebellion lay in his way, and he found it.
  Prince. Peace, chewet, peace!
  Wor. It pleas'd your Majesty to turn your looks
    Of favour from myself and all our house;
    And yet I must remember you, my lord,
    We were the first and dearest of your friends.
    For you my staff of office did I break
    In Richard's time, and posted day and night
    To meet you on the way and kiss your hand
    When yet you were in place and in account
    Nothing so strong and fortunate as I.
    It was myself, my brother, and his son
    That brought you home and boldly did outdare
    The dangers of the time. You swore to us,
    And you did swear that oath at Doncaster,
    That you did nothing purpose 'gainst the state,
    Nor claim no further than your new-fall'n right,
    The seat of Gaunt, dukedom of Lancaster.
    To this we swore our aid. But in short space
    It it rain'd down fortune show'ring on your head,
    And such a flood of greatness fell on you-
    What with our help, what with the absent King,
    What with the injuries of a wanton time,
    The seeming sufferances that you had borne,
    And the contrarious winds that held the King
    So long in his unlucky Irish wars
    That all in England did repute him dead-
    And from this swarm of fair advantages
    You took occasion to be quickly woo'd
    To gripe the general sway into your hand;
    Forgot your oath to us at Doncaster;
    And, being fed by us, you us'd us so
    As that ungentle gull, the cuckoo's bird,
    Useth the sparrow- did oppress our nest;
    Grew, by our feeding to so great a bulk
    That even our love thirst not come near your sight
    For fear of swallowing; but with nimble wing
    We were enforc'd for safety sake to fly
    Out of your sight and raise this present head;
    Whereby we stand opposed by such means
    As you yourself have forg'd against yourself
    By unkind usage, dangerous countenance,
    And violation of all faith and troth
    Sworn to tis in your younger enterprise.
  King. These things, indeed, you have articulate,
    Proclaim'd at market crosses, read in churches,
    To face the garment of rebellion
    With some fine colour that may please the eye
    Of fickle changelings and poor discontents,
    Which gape and rub the elbow at the news
    Of hurlyburly innovation.
    And never yet did insurrection want
    Such water colours to impaint his cause,
    Nor moody beggars, starving for a time
    Of pell-mell havoc and confusion.
  Prince. In both our armies there is many a soul
    Shall pay full dearly for this encounter,
    If once they join in trial. Tell your nephew
    The Prince of Wales doth join with all the world
    In praise of Henry Percy. By my hopes,
    This present enterprise set off his head,
    I do not think a braver gentleman,
    More active-valiant or more valiant-young,
    More daring or more bold, is now alive
    To grace this latter age with noble deeds.
    For my part, I may speak it to my shame,
    I have a truant been to chivalry;
    And so I hear he doth account me too.
    Yet this before my father's Majesty-
    I am content that he shall take the odds
    Of his great name and estimation,
    And will to save the blood on either side,
    Try fortune with him in a single fight.
  King. And, Prince of Wales, so dare we venture thee,
    Albeit considerations infinite
    Do make against it. No, good Worcester, no!
    We love our people well; even those we love
    That are misled upon your cousin's part;
    And, will they take the offer of our grace,
    Both he, and they, and you, yea, every man
    Shall be my friend again, and I'll be his.
    So tell your cousin, and bring me word
    What he will do. But if he will not yield,
    Rebuke and dread correction wait on us,
    And they shall do their office. So be gone.
    We will not now be troubled with reply.
    We offer fair; take it advisedly.
                                    Exit Worcester [with Vernon]
  Prince. It will not be accepted, on my life.
    The Douglas and the Hotspur both together
    Are confident against the world in arms.
  King. Hence, therefore, every leader to his charge;
    For, on their answer, will we set on them,
    And God befriend us as our cause is just!
                                Exeunt. Manent Prince, Falstaff.
  Fal. Hal, if thou see me down in the battle and bestride me, so!
    'Tis a point of friendship.
  Prince. Nothing but a Colossus can do thee that friendship.
    Say thy prayers, and farewell.
  Fal. I would 'twere bedtime, Hal, and all well.
  Prince. Why, thou owest God a death.
Exit.
  Fal. 'Tis not due yet. I would be loath to pay him before his day.
    What need I be so forward with him that calls not on me? Well,
    'tis no matter; honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick
    me off when I come on? How then? Can honor set to a leg? No. Or
    an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honour hath no
    skill in surgery then? No. What is honour? A word. What is that
    word honour? Air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? He that died a
    Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth be bear it? No. 'Tis
    insensible then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the
    living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I'll
    none of it. Honour is a mere scutcheon- and so ends my catechism.
Exit.




Scene II.
The rebel camp.

Enter Worcester and Sir Richard Vernon.

  Wor. O no, my nephew must not know, Sir Richard,
    The liberal and kind offer of the King.
  Ver. 'Twere best he did.
  Wor. Then are we all undone.
    It is not possible, it cannot be
    The King should keep his word in loving us.
    He will suspect us still and find a time
    To punish this offence in other faults.
    Suspicion all our lives shall be stuck full of eyes;
    For treason is but trusted like the fox
    Who, ne'er so tame, so cherish'd and lock'd up,
    Will have a wild trick of his ancestors.
    Look how we can, or sad or merrily,
    Interpretation will misquote our looks,
    And we shall feed like oxen at a stall,
    The better cherish'd, still the nearer death.
    My nephew's trespass may be well forgot;
    It hath the excuse of youth and heat of blood,
    And an adopted name of privilege-
    A hare-brained Hotspur govern'd by a spleen.
    All his offences live upon my head
    And on his father's. We did train him on;
    And, his corruption being taken from us,
    We, as the spring of all, shall pay for all.
    Therefore, good cousin, let not Harry know,
    In any case, the offer of the King.

               Enter Hotspur [and Douglas].

  Ver. Deliver what you will, I'll say 'tis so.
    Here comes your cousin.
  Hot. My uncle is return'd.
    Deliver up my Lord of Westmoreland.
    Uncle, what news?
  Wor. The King will bid you battle presently.
  Doug. Defy him by the Lord Of Westmoreland.
  Hot. Lord Douglas, go you and tell him so.
  Doug. Marry, and shall, and very willingly.
Exit.
  Wor. There is no seeming mercy in the King.
  Hot. Did you beg any, God forbid!
  Wor. I told him gently of our grievances,
    Of his oath-breaking; which he mended thus,
    By now forswearing that he is forsworn.
    He calls us rebels, traitors, aid will scourge
    With haughty arms this hateful name in us.

                       Enter Douglas.

  Doug. Arm, gentlemen! to arms! for I have thrown
    A brave defiance in King Henry's teeth,
    And Westmoreland, that was engag'd, did bear it;
    Which cannot choose but bring him quickly on.
  Wor. The Prince of Wales stepp'd forth before the King
    And, nephew, challeng'd you to single fight.
  Hot. O, would the quarrel lay upon our heads,
    And that no man might draw short breath to-day
    But I and Harry Monmouth! Tell me, tell me,
    How show'd his tasking? Seem'd it in contempt?
    No, by my soul. I never in my life
    Did hear a challenge urg'd more modestly,
    Unless a brother should a brother dare
    To gentle exercise and proof of arms.
    He gave you all the duties of a man;
    Trimm'd up your praises with a princely tongue;
    Spoke your deservings like a chronicle;
    Making you ever better than his praise
    By still dispraising praise valued with you;
    And, which became him like a prince indeed,
    He made a blushing cital of himself,
    And chid his truant youth with such a grace
    As if lie mast'red there a double spirit
    Of teaching and of learning instantly.
    There did he pause; but let me tell the world,
    If he outlive the envy of this day,
    England did never owe so sweet a hope,
    So much misconstrued in his wantonness.
  Hot. Cousin, I think thou art enamoured
    Upon his follies. Never did I hear
    Of any prince so wild a libertine.
    But be he as he will, yet once ere night
    I will embrace him with a soldier's arm,
    That he shall shrink under my courtesy.
    Arm, arm with speed! and, fellows, soldiers, friends,
    Better consider what you have to do
    Than I, that have not well the gift of tongue,
    Can lift your blood up with persuasion.

                       Enter a Messenger.

  Mess. My lord, here are letters for you.
  Hot. I cannot read them now.-
    O gentlemen, the time of life is short!
    To spend that shortness basely were too long
    If life did ride upon a dial's point,
    Still ending at the arrival of an hour.
    An if we live, we live to tread on kings;
    If die, brave death, when princes die with us!
    Now for our consciences, the arms are fair,
    When the intent of bearing them is just.

                  Enter another Messenger.

  Mess. My lord, prepare. The King comes on apace.
  Hot. I thank him that he cuts me from my tale,
    For I profess not talking. Only this-
    Let each man do his best; and here draw I
    A sword whose temper I intend to stain
    With the best blood that I can meet withal
    In the adventure of this perilous day.
    Now, Esperance! Percy! and set on.
    Sound all the lofty instruments of war,
    And by that music let us all embrace;
    For, heaven to earth, some of us never shall
    A second time do such a courtesy.
                          Here they embrace. The trumpets sound.
                                                       [Exeunt.]




Scene III.
Plain between the camps.

The King enters with his Power.  Alarum to the battle.  Then enter Douglas
and Sir Walter Blunt.

  Blunt. What is thy name, that in the battle thus
    Thou crossest me? What honour dost thou seek
    Upon my head?
  Doug. Know then my name is Douglas,
    And I do haunt thee in the battle thus
    Because some tell me that thou art a king.
  Blunt. They tell thee true.
  Doug. The Lord of Stafford dear to-day hath bought
    Thy likeness; for instead of thee, King Harry,
    This sword hath ended him. So shall it thee,
    Unless thou yield thee as my prisoner.
  Blunt. I was not born a yielder, thou proud Scot;
    And thou shalt find a king that will revenge
    Lord Stafford's death.

    They fight. Douglas kills Blunt. Then enter Hotspur.

  Hot. O Douglas, hadst thou fought at Holmedon thus,
    I never had triumph'd upon a Scot.
  Doug. All's done, all's won. Here breathless lies the King.
  Hot. Where?
  Doug. Here.
  Hot. This, Douglas? No. I know this face full well.
    A gallant knight he was, his name was Blunt;
    Semblably furnish'd like the King himself.
  Doug. A fool go with thy soul, whither it goes!
    A borrowed title hast thou bought too dear:
    Why didst thou tell me that thou wert a king?
  Hot. The King hath many marching in his coats.
  Doug. Now, by my sword, I will kill all his coats;
    I'll murder all his wardrop, piece by piece,
    Until I meet the King.
  Hot. Up and away!
    Our soldiers stand full fairly for the day.
                                                         Exeunt.

                 Alarum. Enter Falstaff solus.

  Fal. Though I could scape shot-free at London, I fear the shot
    here. Here's no scoring but upon the pate. Soft! who are you?
    Sir Walter Blunt. There's honour for you! Here's no vanity! I am
    as hot as molten lead, and as heavy too. God keep lead out of me!
    I need no more weight than mine own bowels. I have led my
    rag-of-muffins where they are pepper'd. There's not three of my
    hundred and fifty left alive; and they are for the town's end, to
    beg during life. But who comes here?

                         Enter the Prince.

  Prince. What, stand'st thou idle here? Lend me thy sword.
    Many a nobleman lies stark and stiff
    Under the hoofs of vaunting enemies,
    Whose deaths are yet unreveng'd. I prithee
    Rend me thy sword.
  Fal. O Hal, I prithee give me leave to breathe awhile. Turk Gregory
    never did such deeds in arms as I have done this day. I have paid
    Percy; I have made him sure.
  Prince. He is indeed, and living to kill thee.
    I prithee lend me thy sword.
  Fal. Nay, before God, Hal, if Percy be alive, thou get'st not my
    sword; but take my pistol, if thou wilt.
  Prince. Give it me. What, is it in the case?
  Fal. Ay, Hal. 'Tis hot, 'tis hot. There's that will sack a city.

    The Prince draws it out and finds it to he a bottle of sack.

    What, is it a time to jest and dally now?
                              He throws the bottle at him. Exit.
  Fal. Well, if Percy be alive, I'll pierce him. If he do come in my
    way, so; if he do not, if I come in his willingly, let him make a
    carbonado of me. I like not such grinning honour as Sir Walter
    hath. Give me life; which if I can save, so; if not, honour comes
    unlook'd for, and there's an end.                      Exit.




Scene IV.
Another part of the field.

Alarum. Excursions. Enter the King, the Prince, Lord John of Lancaster,
Earl of Westmoreland

  King. I prithee,
    Harry, withdraw thyself; thou bleedest too much.
    Lord John of Lancaster, go you unto him.
  John. Not I, my lord, unless I did bleed too.
  Prince. I do beseech your Majesty make up,
    Lest Your retirement do amaze your friends.
  King. I will do so.
    My Lord of Westmoreland, lead him to his tent.
  West. Come, my lord, I'll lead you to your tent.
  Prince. Lead me, my lord, I do not need your help;
    And God forbid a shallow scratch should drive
    The Prince of Wales from such a field as this,
    Where stain'd nobility lies trodden on,
    And rebels' arms triumph in massacres!
  John. We breathe too long. Come, cousin Westmoreland,
    Our duty this way lies. For God's sake, come.
                          [Exeunt Prince John and Westmoreland.]
  Prince. By God, thou hast deceiv'd me, Lancaster!
    I did not think thee lord of such a spirit.
    Before, I lov'd thee as a brother, John;
    But now, I do respect thee as my soul.
  King. I saw him hold Lord Percy at the point
    With lustier maintenance than I did look for
    Of such an ungrown warrior.
  Prince. O, this boy
    Lends mettle to us all!                                Exit.

                         Enter Douglas.

  Doug. Another king? They grow like Hydra's heads.
    I am the Douglas, fatal to all those
    That wear those colours on them. What art thou
    That counterfeit'st the person of a king?
  King. The King himself, who, Douglas, grieves at heart
    So many of his shadows thou hast met,
    And not the very King. I have two boys
    Seek Percy and thyself about the field;
    But, seeing thou fall'st on me so luckily,
    I will assay thee. So defend thyself.
  Doug. I fear thou art another counterfeit;
    And yet, in faith, thou bearest thee like a king.
    But mine I am sure thou art, whoe'er thou be,
    And thus I win thee.

   They fight. The King being in danger, enter Prince of Wales.

  Prince. Hold up thy head, vile Scot, or thou art like
    Never to hold it up again! The spirits
    Of valiant Shirley, Stafford, Blunt are in my arms.
    It is the Prince of Wales that threatens thee,
    Who never promiseth but he means to pay.
                                     They fight. Douglas flieth.
    Cheerly, my lord. How fares your Grace?
    Sir Nicholas Gawsey hath for succour sent,
    And so hath Clifton. I'll to Clifton straight.
  King. Stay and breathe awhile.
    Thou hast redeem'd thy lost opinion,
    And show'd thou mak'st some tender of my life,
    In this fair rescue thou hast brought to me.
  Prince. O God! they did me too much injury
    That ever said I heark'ned for your death.
    If it were so, I might have let alone
    The insulting hand of Douglas over you,
    Which would have been as speedy in your end
    As all the poisonous potions in the world,
    And sav'd the treacherous labour of your son.
  King. Make up to Clifton; I'll to Sir Nicholas Gawsey.
Exit.

                      Enter Hotspur.

  Hot. If I mistake not, thou art Harry Monmouth.
  Prince. Thou speak'st as if I would deny my name.
  Hot. My name is Harry Percy.
  Prince. Why, then I see
    A very valiant rebel of the name.
    I am the Prince of Wales; and think not, Percy,
    To share with me in glory any more.
    Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere,
    Nor can one England brook a double reign
    Of Harry Percy and the Prince of Wales.
  Hot. Nor shall it, Harry; for the hour is come
    To end the one of us and would to God
    Thy name in arms were now as great as mine!
  Prince. I'll make it greater ere I part from thee,
    And all the budding honours on thy crest
    I'll crop to make a garland for my head.
  Hot. I can no longer brook thy vanities.
                                                     They fight.

                      Enter Falstaff.

  Fal. Well said, Hal! to it, Hal! Nay, you shall find no boy's play
    here, I can tell you.

   Enter Douglas. He fighteth with Falstaff, who falls down as if
      he were dead. [Exit Douglas.] The Prince killeth Percy.

  Hot. O Harry, thou hast robb'd me of my youth!
    I better brook the loss of brittle life
    Than those proud titles thou hast won of me.
    They wound my thoughts worse than thy sword my flesh.
    But thoughts the slave, of life, and life time's fool,
    And time, that takes survey of all the world,
    Must have a stop. O, I could prophesy,
    But that the earthy and cold hand of death
    Lies on my tongue. No, Percy, thou art dust,
    And food for-                                        [Dies.]
  Prince. For worms, brave Percy. Fare thee well, great heart!
    Ill-weav'd ambition, how much art thou shrunk!
    When that this body did contain a spirit,
    A kingdom for it was too small a bound;
    But now two paces of the vilest earth
    Is room enough. This earth that bears thee dead
    Bears not alive so stout a gentleman.
    If thou wert sensible of courtesy,
    I should not make so dear a show of zeal.
    But let my favours hide thy mangled face;
    And, even in thy behalf, I'll thank myself
    For doing these fair rites of tenderness.
    Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to heaven!
    Thy ignominy sleep with thee in the grave,
    But not rememb'red in thy epitaph!
                               He spieth Falstaff on the ground.
    What, old acquaintance? Could not all this flesh
    Keep in a little life? Poor Jack, farewell!
    I could have better spar'd a better man.
    O, I should have a heavy miss of thee
    If I were much in love with vanity!
    Death hath not struck so fat a deer to-day,
    Though many dearer, in this bloody fray.
    Embowell'd will I see thee by-and-by;
    Till then in blood by noble Percy lie.                 Exit.

                     Falstaff riseth up.

  Fal. Embowell'd? If thou embowel me to-day, I'll give you leave to
    powder me and eat me too to-morrow. 'Sblood, 'twas time to
    counterfeit, or that hot termagant Scot had paid me scot and lot
    too. Counterfeit? I lie; I am no counterfeit. To die is to be a
    counterfeit; for he is but the counterfeit of a man who hath not
    the life of a man; but to counterfeit dying when a man thereby
    liveth, is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect image
    of life indeed. The better part of valour is discretion; in the
    which better part I have saved my life. Zounds, I am afraid of
    this gunpowder Percy, though he be dead. How if he should
    counterfeit too, and rise? By my faith, I am afraid he would
    prove the better counterfeit. Therefore I'll make him sure; yea,
    and I'll swear I kill'd him. Why may not he rise as well as I?
    Nothing confutes me but eyes, and nobody sees me. Therefore,
    sirrah [stabs him], with a new wound in your thigh, come you
    along with me.

   He takes up Hotspur on his hack. [Enter Prince, and John of
                            Lancaster.

  Prince. Come, brother John; full bravely hast thou flesh'd
    Thy maiden sword.
  John. But, soft! whom have we here?
    Did you not tell me this fat man was dead?
  Prince. I did; I saw him dead,
    Breathless and bleeding on the ground. Art thou alive,
    Or is it fantasy that plays upon our eyesight?
    I prithee speak. We will not trust our eyes
    Without our ears. Thou art not what thou seem'st.
  Fal. No, that's certain! I am not a double man; but if I be not
    Jack Falstaff, then am I a Jack. There 's Percy. If your father
    will do me any honour, so; if not, let him kill the next Percy
    himself. I look to be either earl or duke, I can assure you.
  Prince. Why, Percy I kill'd myself, and saw thee dead!
  Fal. Didst thou? Lord, Lord, how this world is given to lying! I
    grant you I was down, and out of breath, and so was he; but we
    rose both at an instant and fought a long hour by Shrewsbury
    clock. If I may be believ'd, so; if not, let them that should
    reward valour bear the sin upon their own heads. I'll take it
    upon my death, I gave him this wound in the thigh. If the man
    were alive and would deny it, zounds! I would make him eat a
    piece of my sword.
  John. This is the strangest tale that ever I beard.
  Prince. This is the strangest fellow, brother John.
    Come, bring your luggage nobly on your back.
    For my part, if a lie may do thee grace,
    I'll gild it with the happiest terms I have.
                                           A retreat is sounded.
    The trumpet sounds retreat; the day is ours.
    Come, brother, let's to the highest of the field,
    To see what friends are living, who are dead.
                          Exeunt [Prince Henry and Prince John].
  Fal. I'll follow, as they say, for reward. He that rewards me, God
    reward him! If I do grow great, I'll grow less; for I'll purge,
    and leave sack, and live cleanly, as a nobleman should do.
                                    Exit [bearing off the body].




Scene V.
Another part of the field.

The trumpets sound. [Enter the King, Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lancaster,
Earl of Westmoreland, with Worcester and Vernon prisoners.

  King. Thus ever did rebellion find rebuke.
    Ill-spirited Worcester! did not we send grace,
    Pardon, and terms of love to all of you?
    And wouldst thou turn our offers contrary?
    Misuse the tenour of thy kinsman's trust?
    Three knights upon our party slain to-day,
    A noble earl, and many a creature else
    Had been alive this hour,
    If like a Christian thou hadst truly borne
    Betwixt our armies true intelligence.
  Wor. What I have done my safety urg'd me to;
    And I embrace this fortune patiently,
    Since not to be avoided it fails on me.
  King. Bear Worcester to the death, and Vernon too;
    Other offenders we will pause upon.
                         Exeunt Worcester and Vernon, [guarded].
    How goes the field?
  Prince. The noble Scot, Lord Douglas, when he saw
    The fortune of the day quite turn'd from him,
    The Noble Percy slain and all his men
    Upon the foot of fear, fled with the rest;
    And falling from a hill,he was so bruis'd
    That the pursuers took him. At my tent
    The Douglas is, and I beseech Your Grace
    I may dispose of him.
  King. With all my heart.
  Prince. Then brother John of Lancaster, to you
    This honourable bounty shall belong.
    Go to the Douglas and deliver him
    Up to his pleasure, ransomless and free.
    His valour shown upon our crests today
    Hath taught us how to cherish such high deeds,
    Even in the bosom of our adversaries.
  John. I thank your Grace for this high courtesy,
    Which I shall give away immediately.
  King. Then this remains, that we divide our power.
    You, son John, and my cousin Westmoreland,
    Towards York shall bend you with your dearest speed
    To meet Northumberland and the prelate Scroop,
    Who, as we hear, are busily in arms.
    Myself and you, son Harry, will towards Wales
    To fight with Glendower and the Earl of March.
    Rebellion in this laud shall lose his sway,
    Meeting the check of such another day;
    And since this business so fair is done,
    Let us not leave till all our own be won.
                                                         Exeunt.


THE END



<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
COMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANY
SERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP.>>





1598


SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV

by William Shakespeare



Dramatis Personae

  RUMOUR, the Presenter
  KING HENRY THE FOURTH

  HENRY, PRINCE OF WALES, afterwards HENRY
  PRINCE JOHN OF LANCASTER
  PRINCE HUMPHREY OF GLOUCESTER
  THOMAS, DUKE OF CLARENCE
    Sons of Henry IV

  EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND
  SCROOP, ARCHBISHOP OF YORK
  LORD MOWBRAY
  LORD HASTINGS
  LORD BARDOLPH
  SIR JOHN COLVILLE
  TRAVERS and MORTON, retainers of Northumberland
    Opposites against King Henry IV

  EARL OF WARWICK
  EARL OF WESTMORELAND
  EARL OF SURREY
  EARL OF KENT
  GOWER
  HARCOURT
  BLUNT
    Of the King's party

  LORD CHIEF JUSTICE
  SERVANT, to Lord Chief Justice

  SIR JOHN FALSTAFF
  EDWARD POINS
  BARDOLPH
  PISTOL
  PETO
    Irregular humourists

  PAGE, to Falstaff

  ROBERT SHALLOW and SILENCE, country Justices
  DAVY, servant to Shallow

  FANG and SNARE, Sheriff's officers

  RALPH MOULDY
  SIMON SHADOW
  THOMAS WART
  FRANCIS FEEBLE
  PETER BULLCALF
    Country soldiers

  FRANCIS, a drawer

  LADY NORTHUMBERLAND
  LADY PERCY, Percy's widow
  HOSTESS QUICKLY, of the Boar's Head, Eastcheap
  DOLL TEARSHEET

  LORDS, Attendants, Porter, Drawers, Beadles, Grooms, Servants,
    Speaker of the Epilogue

                       SCENE: England

INDUCTION
                         INDUCTION.
           Warkworth. Before NORTHUMBERLAND'S Castle

            Enter RUMOUR, painted full of tongues

  RUMOUR. Open your ears; for which of you will stop
    The vent of hearing when loud Rumour speaks?
    I, from the orient to the drooping west,
    Making the wind my post-horse, still unfold
    The acts commenced on this ball of earth.
    Upon my tongues continual slanders ride,
    The which in every language I pronounce,
    Stuffing the ears of men with false reports.
    I speak of peace while covert emnity,
    Under the smile of safety, wounds the world;
    And who but Rumour, who but only I,
    Make fearful musters and prepar'd defence,
    Whiles the big year, swoln with some other grief,
    Is thought with child by the stern tyrant war,
    And no such matter? Rumour is a pipe
    Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures,
    And of so easy and so plain a stop
    That the blunt monster with uncounted heads,
    The still-discordant wav'ring multitude,
    Can play upon it. But what need I thus
    My well-known body to anatomize
    Among my household? Why is Rumour here?
    I run before King Harry's victory,
    Who, in a bloody field by Shrewsbury,
    Hath beaten down young Hotspur and his troops,
    Quenching the flame of bold rebellion
    Even with the rebels' blood. But what mean I
    To speak so true at first? My office is
    To noise abroad that Harry Monmouth fell
    Under the wrath of noble Hotspur's sword,
    And that the King before the Douglas' rage
    Stoop'd his anointed head as low as death.
    This have I rumour'd through the peasant towns
    Between that royal field of Shrewsbury
    And this worm-eaten hold of ragged stone,
    Where Hotspur's father, old Northumberland,
    Lies crafty-sick. The posts come tiring on,
    And not a man of them brings other news
    Than they have learnt of me. From Rumour's tongues
    They bring smooth comforts false, worse than true wrongs.
 Exit




<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
COMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANY
SERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP.>>



ACT I. SCENE I.
Warkworth. Before NORTHUMBERLAND'S Castle

Enter LORD BARDOLPH

  LORD BARDOLPH. Who keeps the gate here, ho?

                   The PORTER opens the gate

    Where is the Earl?
  PORTER. What shall I say you are?
  LORD BARDOLPH. Tell thou the Earl
    That the Lord Bardolph doth attend him here.
  PORTER. His lordship is walk'd forth into the orchard.
    Please it your honour knock but at the gate,
    And he himself will answer.

                      Enter NORTHUMBERLAND

  LORD BARDOLPH. Here comes the Earl.                Exit PORTER
  NORTHUMBERLAND. What news, Lord Bardolph? Every minute now
    Should be the father of some stratagem.
    The times are wild; contention, like a horse
    Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loose
    And bears down all before him.
  LORD BARDOLPH. Noble Earl,
    I bring you certain news from Shrewsbury.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. Good, an God will!
  LORD BARDOLPH. As good as heart can wish.
    The King is almost wounded to the death;
    And, in the fortune of my lord your son,
    Prince Harry slain outright; and both the Blunts
    Kill'd by the hand of Douglas; young Prince John,
    And Westmoreland, and Stafford, fled the field;
    And Harry Monmouth's brawn, the hulk Sir John,
    Is prisoner to your son. O, such a day,
    So fought, so followed, and so fairly won,
    Came not till now to dignify the times,
    Since Cxsar's fortunes!
  NORTHUMBERLAND. How is this deriv'd?
    Saw you the field? Came you from Shrewsbury?
  LORD BARDOLPH. I spake with one, my lord, that came from thence;
    A gentleman well bred and of good name,
    That freely rend'red me these news for true.

                         Enter TRAVERS

  NORTHUMBERLAND. Here comes my servant Travers, whom I sent
    On Tuesday last to listen after news.
  LORD BARDOLPH. My lord, I over-rode him on the way;
    And he is furnish'd with no certainties
    More than he haply may retail from me.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. Now, Travers, what good tidings comes with you?
  TRAVERS. My lord, Sir John Umfrevile turn'd me back
    With joyful tidings; and, being better hors'd,
    Out-rode me. After him came spurring hard
    A gentleman, almost forspent with speed,
    That stopp'd by me to breathe his bloodied horse.
    He ask'd the way to Chester; and of him
    I did demand what news from Shrewsbury.
    He told me that rebellion had bad luck,
    And that young Harry Percy's spur was cold.
    With that he gave his able horse the head
    And, bending forward, struck his armed heels
    Against the panting sides of his poor jade
    Up to the rowel-head; and starting so,
    He seem'd in running to devour the way,
    Staying no longer question.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. Ha! Again:
    Said he young Harry Percy's spur was cold?
    Of Hotspur, Coldspur? that rebellion
    Had met ill luck?
  LORD BARDOLPH. My lord, I'll tell you what:
    If my young lord your son have not the day,
    Upon mine honour, for a silken point
    I'll give my barony. Never talk of it.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. Why should that gentleman that rode by Travers
    Give then such instances of loss?
  LORD BARDOLPH. Who- he?
    He was some hilding fellow that had stol'n
    The horse he rode on and, upon my life,
    Spoke at a venture. Look, here comes more news.

                        Enter Morton

  NORTHUMBERLAND. Yea, this man's brow, like to a title-leaf,
    Foretells the nature of a tragic volume.
    So looks the strand whereon the imperious flood
    Hath left a witness'd usurpation.
    Say, Morton, didst thou come from Shrewsbury?
  MORTON. I ran from Shrewsbury, my noble lord;
    Where hateful death put on his ugliest mask
    To fright our party.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. How doth my son and brother?
    Thou tremblest; and the whiteness in thy cheek
    Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand.
    Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless,
    So dull, so dread in look, so woe-begone,
    Drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night
    And would have told him half his Troy was burnt;
    But Priam found the fire ere he his tongue,
    And I my Percy's death ere thou report'st it.
    This thou wouldst say: 'Your son did thus and thus;
    Your brother thus; so fought the noble Douglas'-
    Stopping my greedy ear with their bold deeds;
    But in the end, to stop my ear indeed,
    Thou hast a sigh to blow away this praise,
    Ending with 'Brother, son, and all, are dead.'
  MORTON. Douglas is living, and your brother, yet;
    But for my lord your son-
  NORTHUMBERLAND. Why, he is dead.
    See what a ready tongue suspicion hath!
    He that but fears the thing he would not know
    Hath by instinct knowledge from others' eyes
    That what he fear'd is chanced. Yet speak, Morton;
    Tell thou an earl his divination lies,
    And I will take it as a sweet disgrace
    And make thee rich for doing me such wrong.
  MORTON. You are too great to be by me gainsaid;
    Your spirit is too true, your fears too certain.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. Yet, for all this, say not that Percy's dead.
    I see a strange confession in thine eye;
    Thou shak'st thy head, and hold'st it fear or sin
    To speak a truth. If he be slain, say so:
    The tongue offends not that reports his death;
    And he doth sin that doth belie the dead,
    Not he which says the dead is not alive.
    Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news
    Hath but a losing office, and his tongue
    Sounds ever after as a sullen bell,
    Rememb'red tolling a departing friend.
  LORD BARDOLPH. I cannot think, my lord, your son is dead.
  MORTON. I am sorry I should force you to believe
    That which I would to God I had not seen;
    But these mine eyes saw him in bloody state,
    Rend'ring faint quittance, wearied and out-breath'd,
    To Harry Monmouth, whose swift wrath beat down
    The never-daunted Percy to the earth,
    From whence with life he never more sprung up.
    In few, his death- whose spirit lent a fire
    Even to the dullest peasant in his camp-
    Being bruited once, took fire and heat away
    From the best-temper'd courage in his troops;
    For from his metal was his party steeled;
    Which once in him abated, an the rest
    Turn'd on themselves, like dull and heavy lead.
    And as the thing that's heavy in itself
    Upon enforcement flies with greatest speed,
    So did our men, heavy in Hotspur's loss,
    Lend to this weight such lightness with their fear
    That arrows fled not swifter toward their aim
    Than did our soldiers, aiming at their safety,
    Fly from the field. Then was that noble Worcester
    Too soon ta'en prisoner; and that furious Scot,
    The bloody Douglas, whose well-labouring sword
    Had three times slain th' appearance of the King,
    Gan vail his stomach and did grace the shame
    Of those that turn'd their backs, and in his flight,
    Stumbling in fear, was took. The sum of all
    Is that the King hath won, and hath sent out
    A speedy power to encounter you, my lord,
    Under the conduct of young Lancaster
    And Westmoreland. This is the news at full.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. For this I shall have time enough to mourn.
    In poison there is physic; and these news,
    Having been well, that would have made me sick,
    Being sick, have in some measure made me well;
    And as the wretch whose fever-weak'ned joints,
    Like strengthless hinges, buckle under life,
    Impatient of his fit, breaks like a fire
    Out of his keeper's arms, even so my limbs,
    Weak'ned with grief, being now enrag'd with grief,
    Are thrice themselves. Hence, therefore, thou nice crutch!
    A scaly gauntlet now with joints of steel
    Must glove this hand; and hence, thou sickly coif!
    Thou art a guard too wanton for the head
    Which princes, flesh'd with conquest, aim to hit.
    Now bind my brows with iron; and approach
    The ragged'st hour that time and spite dare bring
    To frown upon th' enrag'd Northumberland!
    Let heaven kiss earth! Now let not Nature's hand
    Keep the wild flood confin'd! Let order die!
    And let this world no longer be a stage
    To feed contention in a ling'ring act;
    But let one spirit of the first-born Cain
    Reign in all bosoms, that, each heart being set
    On bloody courses, the rude scene may end
    And darkness be the burier of the dead!
  LORD BARDOLPH. This strained passion doth you wrong, my lord.
  MORTON. Sweet Earl, divorce not wisdom from your honour.
    The lives of all your loving complices
    Lean on your health; the which, if you give o'er
    To stormy passion, must perforce decay.
    You cast th' event of war, my noble lord,
    And summ'd the account of chance before you said
    'Let us make head.' It was your pre-surmise
    That in the dole of blows your son might drop.
    You knew he walk'd o'er perils on an edge,
    More likely to fall in than to get o'er;
    You were advis'd his flesh was capable
    Of wounds and scars, and that his forward spirit
    Would lift him where most trade of danger rang'd;
    Yet did you say 'Go forth'; and none of this,
    Though strongly apprehended, could restrain
    The stiff-borne action. What hath then befall'n,
    Or what hath this bold enterprise brought forth
    More than that being which was like to be?
  LORD BARDOLPH. We all that are engaged to this loss
    Knew that we ventured on such dangerous seas
    That if we wrought out life 'twas ten to one;
    And yet we ventur'd, for the gain propos'd
    Chok'd the respect of likely peril fear'd;
    And since we are o'erset, venture again.
    Come, we will put forth, body and goods.
  MORTON. 'Tis more than time. And, my most noble lord,
    I hear for certain, and dare speak the truth:
    The gentle Archbishop of York is up
    With well-appointed pow'rs. He is a man
    Who with a double surety binds his followers.
    My lord your son had only but the corpse,
    But shadows and the shows of men, to fight;
    For that same word 'rebellion' did divide
    The action of their bodies from their souls;
    And they did fight with queasiness, constrain'd,
    As men drink potions; that their weapons only
    Seem'd on our side, but for their spirits and souls
    This word 'rebellion'- it had froze them up,
    As fish are in a pond. But now the Bishop
    Turns insurrection to religion.
    Suppos'd sincere and holy in his thoughts,
    He's follow'd both with body and with mind;
    And doth enlarge his rising with the blood
    Of fair King Richard, scrap'd from Pomfret stones;
    Derives from heaven his quarrel and his cause;
    Tells them he doth bestride a bleeding land,
    Gasping for life under great Bolingbroke;
    And more and less do flock to follow him.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. I knew of this before; but, to speak truth,
    This present grief had wip'd it from my mind.
    Go in with me; and counsel every man
    The aptest way for safety and revenge.
    Get posts and letters, and make friends with speed-
    Never so few, and never yet more need.                Exeunt




SCENE II.
London. A street

Enter SIR JOHN FALSTAFF, with his PAGE bearing his sword and buckler

  FALSTAFF. Sirrah, you giant, what says the doctor to my water?
  PAGE. He said, sir, the water itself was a good healthy water; but
    for the party that owed it, he might have moe diseases than he
    knew for.
  FALSTAFF. Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at me. The brain of
    this foolish-compounded clay, man, is not able to invent anything
    that intends to laughter, more than I invent or is invented on
    me. I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in
    other men. I do here walk before thee like a sow that hath
    overwhelm'd all her litter but one. If the Prince put thee into
    my service for any other reason than to set me off, why then I
    have no judgment. Thou whoreson mandrake, thou art fitter to be
    worn in my cap than to wait at my heels. I was never mann'd with
    an agate till now; but I will inset you neither in gold nor
    silver, but in vile apparel, and send you back again to your
    master, for a jewel- the juvenal, the Prince your master, whose
    chin is not yet fledge. I will sooner have a beard grow in the
    palm of my hand than he shall get one off his cheek; and yet he
    will not stick to say his face is a face-royal. God may finish it
    when he will, 'tis not a hair amiss yet. He may keep it still at
    a face-royal, for a barber shall never earn sixpence out of it;
    and yet he'll be crowing as if he had writ man ever since his
    father was a bachelor. He may keep his own grace, but he's almost
    out of mine, I can assure him. What said Master Dommelton about
    the satin for my short cloak and my slops?
  PAGE. He said, sir, you should procure him better assurance than
    Bardolph. He would not take his band and yours; he liked not the
    security.
  FALSTAFF. Let him be damn'd, like the Glutton; pray God his tongue
    be hotter! A whoreson Achitophel! A rascal-yea-forsooth knave, to
    bear a gentleman in hand, and then stand upon security! The
    whoreson smooth-pates do now wear nothing but high shoes, and
    bunches of keys at their girdles; and if a man is through with
    them in honest taking-up, then they must stand upon security. I
    had as lief they would put ratsbane in my mouth as offer to stop
    it with security. I look'd 'a should have sent me two and twenty
    yards of satin, as I am a true knight, and he sends me security.
    Well, he may sleep in security; for he hath the horn of
    abundance, and the lightness of his wife shines through it; and
    yet cannot he see, though he have his own lanthorn to light him.
    Where's Bardolph?
  PAGE. He's gone into Smithfield to buy your worship horse.
  FALSTAFF. I bought him in Paul's, and he'll buy me a horse in
    Smithfield. An I could get me but a wife in the stews, I were
    mann'd, hors'd, and wiv'd.

              Enter the LORD CHIEF JUSTICE and SERVANT

  PAGE. Sir, here comes the nobleman that committed the
    Prince for striking him about Bardolph.
  FALSTAFF. Wait close; I will not see him.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. What's he that goes there?
  SERVANT. Falstaff, an't please your lordship.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. He that was in question for the robb'ry?
  SERVANT. He, my lord; but he hath since done good service at
    Shrewsbury, and, as I hear, is now going with some charge to the
    Lord John of Lancaster.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. What, to York? Call him back again.
  SERVANT. Sir John Falstaff!
  FALSTAFF. Boy, tell him I am deaf.
  PAGE. You must speak louder; my master is deaf.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. I am sure he is, to the hearing of anything good.
    Go, pluck him by the elbow; I must speak with him.
  SERVANT. Sir John!
  FALSTAFF. What! a young knave, and begging! Is there not wars? Is
    there not employment? Doth not the King lack subjects? Do not the
    rebels need soldiers? Though it be a shame to be on any side but
    one, it is worse shame to beg than to be on the worst side, were
    it worse than the name of rebellion can tell how to make it.
  SERVANT. You mistake me, sir.
  FALSTAFF. Why, sir, did I say you were an honest man? Setting my
    knighthood and my soldiership aside, I had lied in my throat if I
    had said so.
  SERVANT. I pray you, sir, then set your knighthood and your
    soldiership aside; and give me leave to tell you you in your
    throat, if you say I am any other than an honest man.
  FALSTAFF. I give thee leave to tell me so! I lay aside that which
    grows to me! If thou get'st any leave of me, hang me; if thou
    tak'st leave, thou wert better be hang'd. You hunt counter.
    Hence! Avaunt!
  SERVANT. Sir, my lord would speak with you.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. Sir John Falstaff, a word with you.
  FALSTAFF. My good lord! God give your lordship good time of day. I
    am glad to see your lordship abroad. I heard say your lordship
    was sick; I hope your lordship goes abroad by advice. Your
    lordship, though not clean past your youth, hath yet some smack
    of age in you, some relish of the saltness of time; and I most
    humbly beseech your lordship to have a reverend care of your
    health.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. Sir John, I sent for you before your expedition to
    Shrewsbury.
  FALSTAFF. An't please your lordship, I hear his Majesty is return'd
    with some discomfort from Wales.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. I talk not of his Majesty. You would not come when I
    sent for you.
  FALSTAFF. And I hear, moreover, his Highness is fall'n into this
    same whoreson apoplexy.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. Well God mend him! I pray you let me speak with you.
  FALSTAFF. This apoplexy, as I take it, is a kind of lethargy, an't
    please your lordship, a kind of sleeping in the blood, a whoreson
    tingling.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. What tell you me of it? Be it as it is.
  FALSTAFF. It hath it original from much grief, from study, and
    perturbation of the brain. I have read the cause of his effects
    in Galen; it is a kind of deafness.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. I think you are fall'n into the disease, for you
    hear not what I say to you.
  FALSTAFF. Very well, my lord, very well. Rather an't please you, it
    is the disease of not listening, the malady of not marking, that
    I am troubled withal.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. To punish you by the heels would amend the attention
    of your ears; and I care not if I do become your physician.
  FALSTAFF. I am as poor as Job, my lord, but not so patient. Your
    lordship may minister the potion of imprisonment to me in respect
    of poverty; but how I should be your patient to follow your
    prescriptions, the wise may make some dram of a scruple, or
    indeed a scruple itself.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. I sent for you, when there were matters against you
    for your life, to come speak with me.
  FALSTAFF. As I was then advis'd by my learned counsel in the laws
    of this land-service, I did not come.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. Well, the truth is, Sir John, you live in great
    infamy.
  FALSTAFF. He that buckles himself in my belt cannot live in less.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. Your means are very slender, and your waste is
    great.
  FALSTAFF. I would it were otherwise; I would my means were greater
    and my waist slenderer.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. You have misled the youthful Prince.
  FALSTAFF. The young Prince hath misled me. I am the fellow with the
    great belly, and he my dog.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. Well, I am loath to gall a new-heal'd wound. Your
    day's service at Shrewsbury hath a little gilded over your
    night's exploit on Gadshill. You may thank th' unquiet time for
    your quiet o'erposting that action.
  FALSTAFF. My lord-
  CHIEF JUSTICE. But since all is well, keep it so: wake not a
    sleeping wolf.
  FALSTAFF. To wake a wolf is as bad as smell a fox.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. What! you are as a candle, the better part burnt
    out.
  FALSTAFF. A wassail candle, my lord- all tallow; if I did say of
    wax, my growth would approve the truth.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. There is not a white hair in your face but should
    have his effect of gravity.
  FALSTAFF. His effect of gravy, gravy,
  CHIEF JUSTICE. You follow the young Prince up and down, like his
    ill angel.
  FALSTAFF. Not so, my lord. Your ill angel is light; but  hope he
    that looks upon me will take me without weighing. And yet in some
    respects, I grant, I cannot go- I cannot tell. Virtue is of so
    little regard in these costermongers' times that true valour is
    turn'd berod; pregnancy is made a tapster, and his quick wit
    wasted in giving reckonings; all the other gifts appertinent to
    man, as the malice of this age shapes them, are not worth a
    gooseberry. You that are old consider not the capacities of us
    that are young; you do measure the heat of our livers with the
    bitterness of your galls; and we that are in the vaward of our
    youth, must confess, are wags too.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. Do you set down your name in the scroll of youth,
    that are written down old with all the characters of age? Have
    you not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a
    decreasing leg, an increasing belly? Is not your voice broken,
    your wind short, your chin double, your wit single, and every
    part about you blasted with antiquity? And will you yet call
    yourself young? Fie, fie, fie, Sir John!
  FALSTAFF. My lord, I was born about three of the clock in the
    afternoon, with a white head and something a round belly. For my
    voice- I have lost it with hallooing and singing of anthems. To
    approve my youth further, I will not. The truth is, I am only old
    in judgment and understanding; and he that will caper with me for
    a thousand marks, let him lend me the money, and have at him. For
    the box of the ear that the Prince gave you- he gave it like a
    rude prince, and you took it like a sensible lord. I have check'd
    him for it; and the young lion repents- marry, not in ashes and
    sackcloth, but in new silk and old sack.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. Well, God send the Prince a better companion!
  FALSTAFF. God send the companion a better prince! I cannot rid my
    hands of him.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. Well, the King hath sever'd you. I hear you are
    going with Lord John of Lancaster against the Archbishop and the
    Earl of Northumberland.
  FALSTAFF. Yea; I thank your pretty sweet wit for it. But look you
    pray, all you that kiss my Lady Peace at home, that our armies
    join not in a hot day; for, by the Lord, I take but two shirts
    out with me, and I mean not to sweat extraordinarily. If it be a
    hot day, and I brandish anything but a bottle, I would I might
    never spit white again. There is not a dangerous action can peep
    out his head but I am thrust upon it. Well, I cannot last ever;
    but it was alway yet the trick of our English nation, if they
    have a good thing, to make it too common. If ye will needs say I
    am an old man, you should give me rest. I would to God my name
    were not so terrible to the enemy as it is. I were better to be
    eaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with
    perpetual motion.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. Well, be honest, be honest; and God bless your
    expedition!
  FALSTAFF. Will your lordship lend me a thousand pound to furnish me
    forth?
  CHIEF JUSTICE. Not a penny, not a penny; you are too impatient to
    bear crosses. Fare you well. Commend me to my cousin
    Westmoreland.
                                Exeunt CHIEF JUSTICE and SERVANT
  FALSTAFF. If I do, fillip me with a three-man beetle. A man can no
    more separate age and covetousness than 'a can part young limbs
    and lechery; but the gout galls the one, and the pox pinches the
    other; and so both the degrees prevent my curses. Boy!
  PAGE. Sir?
  FALSTAFF. What money is in my purse?
  PAGE. Seven groats and two pence.
  FALSTAFF. I can get no remedy against this consumption of the
    purse; borrowing only lingers and lingers it out, but the disease
    is incurable. Go bear this letter to my Lord of Lancaster; this
    to the Prince; this to the Earl of Westmoreland; and this to old
    Mistress Ursula, whom I have weekly sworn to marry since I
    perceiv'd the first white hair of my chin. About it; you know
    where to find me.  [Exit PAGE]  A pox of this gout! or, a gout of
    this pox! for the one or the other plays the rogue with my great
    toe. 'Tis no matter if I do halt; I have the wars for my colour,
    and my pension shall seem the more reasonable. A good wit will
    make use of anything. I will turn diseases to commodity.
 Exit




SCENE III.
York. The ARCHBISHOP'S palace

Enter the ARCHBISHOP, THOMAS MOWBRAY the EARL MARSHAL, LORD HASTINGS,
and LORD BARDOLPH

  ARCHBISHOP. Thus have you heard our cause and known our means;
    And, my most noble friends, I pray you all
    Speak plainly your opinions of our hopes-
    And first, Lord Marshal, what say you to it?
  MOWBRAY. I well allow the occasion of our amis;
    But gladly would be better satisfied
    How, in our means, we should advance ourselves
    To look with forehead bold and big enough
    Upon the power and puissance of the King.
  HASTINGS. Our present musters grow upon the file
    To five and twenty thousand men of choice;
    And our supplies live largely in the hope
    Of great Northumberland, whose bosom burns
    With an incensed fire of injuries.
  LORD BARDOLPH. The question then, Lord Hastings, standeth thus:
    Whether our present five and twenty thousand
    May hold up head without Northumberland?
  HASTINGS. With him, we may.
  LORD BARDOLPH. Yea, marry, there's the point;
    But if without him we be thought too feeble,
    My judgment is we should not step too far
    Till we had his assistance by the hand;
    For, in a theme so bloody-fac'd as this,
    Conjecture, expectation, and surmise
    Of aids incertain, should not be admitted.
  ARCHBISHOP. 'Tis very true, Lord Bardolph; for indeed
    It was young Hotspur's case at Shrewsbury.
  LORD BARDOLPH. It was, my lord; who lin'd himself with hope,
    Eating the air and promise of supply,
    Flatt'ring himself in project of a power
    Much smaller than the smallest of his thoughts;
    And so, with great imagination
    Proper to madmen, led his powers to death,
    And, winking, leapt into destruction.
  HASTINGS. But, by your leave, it never yet did hurt
    To lay down likelihoods and forms of hope.
  LORD BARDOLPH. Yes, if this present quality of war-
    Indeed the instant action, a cause on foot-
    Lives so in hope, as in an early spring
    We see th' appearing buds; which to prove fruit
    Hope gives not so much warrant, as despair
    That frosts will bite them. When we mean to build,
    We first survey the plot, then draw the model;
    And when we see the figure of the house,
    Then we must rate the cost of the erection;
    Which if we find outweighs ability,
    What do we then but draw anew the model
    In fewer offices, or at least desist
    To build at all? Much more, in this great work-
    Which is almost to pluck a kingdom down
    And set another up- should we survey
    The plot of situation and the model,
    Consent upon a sure foundation,
    Question surveyors, know our own estate
    How able such a work to undergo-
    To weigh against his opposite; or else
    We fortify in paper and in figures,
    Using the names of men instead 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 cost
    A naked subject to the weeping clouds
    And waste for churlish winter's tyranny.
  HASTINGS. Grant that our hopes- yet likely of fair birth-
    Should be still-born, and that we now possess'd
    The utmost man of expectation,
    I think we are so a body strong enough,
    Even as we are, to equal with the King.
  LORD BARDOLPH. What, is the King but five and twenty thousand?
  HASTINGS. To us no more; nay, not so much, Lord Bardolph;
    For his divisions, as the times do brawl,
    Are in three heads: one power against the French,
    And one against Glendower; perforce a third
    Must take up us. So is the unfirm King
    In three divided; and his coffers sound
    With hollow poverty and emptiness.
  ARCHBISHOP. That he should draw his several strengths together
    And come against us in full puissance
    Need not be dreaded.
  HASTINGS. If he should do so,
    He leaves his back unarm'd, the French and Welsh
    Baying at his heels. Never fear that.
  LORD BARDOLPH. Who is it like should lead his forces hither?
  HASTINGS. The Duke of Lancaster and Westmoreland;
    Against the Welsh, himself and Harry Monmouth;
    But who is substituted against the French
    I have no certain notice.
  ARCHBISHOP. Let us on,
    And publish the occasion of our arms.
    The commonwealth is sick of their own choice;
    Their over-greedy love hath surfeited.
    An habitation giddy and unsure
    Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart.
    O thou fond many, with what loud applause
    Didst thou beat heaven with blessing Bolingbroke
    Before he was what thou wouldst have him be!
    And being now trimm'd in thine own desires,
    Thou, beastly feeder, art so full of him
    That thou provok'st thyself to cast him up.
    So, so, thou common dog, didst thou disgorge
    Thy glutton bosom of the royal Richard;
    And now thou wouldst eat thy dead vomit up,
    And howl'st to find it. What trust 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'st dust upon his goodly head,
    When through proud London he came sighing on
    After th' admired heels of Bolingbroke,
    Criest now 'O earth, yield us that king again,
    And take thou this!' O thoughts of men accurs'd!
    Past and to come seems best; things present, worst.
  MOWBRAY. Shall we go draw our numbers, and set on?
  HASTINGS. We are time's subjects, and time bids be gone.
                                                          Exeunt




<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
COMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANY
SERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP.>>



ACT II. SCENE I.
London. A street

Enter HOSTESS with two officers, FANG and SNARE

  HOSTESS. Master Fang, have you ent'red the action?
  FANG. It is ent'red.
  HOSTESS. Where's your yeoman? Is't a lusty yeoman? Will 'a stand
    to't?
  FANG. Sirrah, where's Snare?
  HOSTESS. O Lord, ay! good Master Snare.
  SNARE. Here, here.
  FANG. Snare, we must arrest Sir John Falstaff.
  HOSTESS. Yea, good Master Snare; I have ent'red him and all.
  SNARE. It may chance cost some of our lives, for he will stab.
  HOSTESS. Alas the day! take heed of him; he stabb'd me in mine own
    house, and that most beastly. In good faith, 'a cares not what
    mischief he does, 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 thrust.
  HOSTESS. No, nor I neither; I'll be at your elbow.
  FANG. An I but fist him once; an 'a come but within my vice!
  HOSTESS. I am undone by his going; I warrant you, he's an
    infinitive thing upon my score. Good Master Fang, hold him sure.
    Good Master Snare, let him not scape. 'A comes continuantly to
    Pie-corner- saving your manhoods- to buy a saddle; and he is
    indited to dinner to the Lubber's Head in Lumbert Street, to
    Master Smooth's the silkman. I pray you, since my exion is
    ent'red, and my case so openly known to the world, let him be
    brought in to his answer. A hundred mark is a long one for a poor
    lone woman to bear; and I have borne, and borne, and borne; and
    have been fubb'd off, and fubb'd off, and fubb'd off, from this
    day to that day, that it is a shame to be thought on. There is no
    honesty in such dealing; unless a woman should be made an ass and
    a beast, to bear every knave's wrong.

            Enter SIR JOHN FALSTAFF, PAGE, and BARDOLPH

    Yonder he comes; and that arrant malmsey-nose knave, Bardolph,
    with him. Do your offices, do your offices, Master Fang and
    Master Snare; do me, do me, do me your offices.
  FALSTAFF. How now! whose mare's dead? What's the matter?
  FANG. Sir John, I arrest you at the suit of Mistress Quickly.
  FALSTAFF. Away, varlets! Draw, Bardolph. Cut me off the villian's
    head. Throw the quean in the channel.
  HOSTESS. Throw me in the channel! I'll throw thee in the channel.
    Wilt thou? wilt thou? thou bastardly rogue! Murder, murder! Ah,
    thou honeysuckle villain! wilt thou kill God's officers and the
    King's? Ah, thou honey-seed rogue! thou art a honey-seed; a
    man-queller and a woman-queller.
  FALSTAFF. Keep them off, Bardolph.
  FANG. A rescue! a rescue!
  HOSTESS. Good people, bring a rescue or two. Thou wot, wot thou!
    thou wot, wot ta? Do, do, thou rogue! do, thou hemp-seed!
  PAGE. Away, you scullion! you rampallian! you fustilarian!
    I'll tickle your catastrophe.

              Enter the LORD CHIEF JUSTICE and his men

  CHIEF JUSTICE. What is the matter? Keep the peace here, ho!
  HOSTESS. Good my lord, be good to me. I beseech you, stand to me.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. How now, Sir John! what, are you brawling here?
    Doth this become your place, your time, and business?
    You should have been well on your way to York.
    Stand from him, fellow; wherefore hang'st thou upon him?
  HOSTESS. O My most worshipful lord, an't please your Grace, I am a
    poor widow of Eastcheap, and he is arrested at my suit.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. For what sum?
  HOSTESS. It is more than for some, my lord; it is for all- all I
    have. He hath eaten me out of house and home; he hath put all my
    substance into that fat belly of his. But I will have some of it
    out again, or I will ride thee a nights like a mare.
  FALSTAFF. I think I am as like to ride the mare, if I have any
    vantage of ground to get up.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. How comes this, Sir John? Fie! What man of good
    temper would endure this tempest of exclamation? Are you not
    ashamed to enforce a poor widow to so rough a course to come by
    her own?
  FALSTAFF. What is the gross sum that I owe thee?
  HOSTESS. Marry, if thou wert an honest man, thyself and the money
    too. Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in
    my Dolphin chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, upon
    Wednesday in Wheeson week, when the Prince broke thy head for
    liking his father to singing-man of Windsor- thou didst swear to
    me then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me and make me my
    lady thy wife. Canst thou deny it? Did not goodwife Keech, the
    butcher's wife, come in then and call me gossip Quickly? Coming
    in to borrow a mess of vinegar, telling us she had a good dish of
    prawns, whereby thou didst desire to eat some, whereby I told
    thee they were ill for green wound? And didst thou not, when she
    was gone down stairs, desire me to be no more so familiarity with
    such poor people, saying that ere long they should call me madam?
    And didst thou not kiss me, and bid me fetch the thirty
    shillings? I put thee now to thy book-oath. Deny it, if thou
    canst.
  FALSTAFF. My lord, this is a poor mad soul, and she says up and
    down the town that her eldest son is like you. She hath been in
    good case, and, the truth is, poverty hath distracted her. But
    for these foolish officers, I beseech you I may have redress
    against them.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. Sir John, Sir John, I am well acquainted with your
    manner of wrenching the true cause the false way. It is not a
    confident brow, nor the throng of words that come with such more
    than impudent sauciness from you, can thrust me from a level
    consideration. You have, as it appears to me, practis'd upon the
    easy yielding spirit of this woman, and made her serve your uses
    both in purse and in person.
  HOSTESS. Yea, in truth, my lord.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. Pray thee, peace. Pay her the debt you owe her, and
    unpay the villainy you have done with her; the one you may do
    with sterling money, and the other with current repentance.
  FALSTAFF. My lord, I will not undergo this sneap without reply. You
    call honourable boldness impudent sauciness; if a man will make
    curtsy and say nothing, he is virtuous. No, my lord, my humble
    duty rememb'red, I will not be your suitor. I say to you I do
    desire deliverance from these officers, being upon hasty
    employment in the King's affairs.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. You speak as having power to do wrong; but answer in
    th' effect of your reputation, and satisfy the poor woman.
  FALSTAFF. Come hither, hostess.

                               Enter GOWER

  CHIEF JUSTICE. Now, Master Gower, what news?
  GOWER. The King, my lord, and Harry Prince of Wales
    Are near at hand. The rest the paper tells. [Gives a letter]
  FALSTAFF. As I am a gentleman!
  HOSTESS. Faith, you said so before.
  FALSTAFF. As I am a gentleman! Come, no more words of it.
  HOSTESS. By this heavenly ground I tread on, I must be fain to pawn
    both my plate and the tapestry of my dining-chambers.
  FALSTAFF. Glasses, glasses, is the only drinking; and for thy
    walls, a pretty slight drollery, or the story of the Prodigal, or
    the German hunting, in water-work, is worth a thousand of these
    bed-hangers and these fly-bitten tapestries. Let it be ten pound,
    if thou canst. Come, and 'twere not for thy humours, there's not
    a better wench in England. Go, wash thy face, and draw the
    action. Come, thou must not be in this humour with me; dost not
    know me? Come, come, I know thou wast set on to this.
  HOSTESS. Pray thee, Sir John, let it be but twenty nobles;
    i' faith, I am loath to pawn my plate, so God save me, la!
  FALSTAFF. Let it alone; I'll make other shift. You'll be a fool
    still.
  HOSTESS. Well, you shall have it, though I pawn my gown.
    I hope you'll come to supper. you'll pay me all together?
  FALSTAFF. Will I live?  [To BARDOLPH]  Go, with her, with her; hook
    on, hook on.
  HOSTESS. Will you have Doll Tearsheet meet you at supper?
  FALSTAFF. No more words; let's have her.
                          Exeunt HOSTESS, BARDOLPH, and OFFICERS
  CHIEF JUSTICE. I have heard better news.
  FALSTAFF. What's the news, my lord?
  CHIEF JUSTICE. Where lay the King to-night?
  GOWER. At Basingstoke, my lord.
  FALSTAFF. I hope, my lord, all's well. What is the news, my lord?
  CHIEF JUSTICE. Come all his forces back?
  GOWER. No; fifteen hundred foot, five hundred horse,
    Are march'd up to my Lord of Lancaster,
    Against Northumberland and the Archbishop.
  FALSTAFF. Comes the King back from Wales, my noble lord?
  CHIEF JUSTICE. You shall have letters of me presently.
    Come, go along with me, good Master Gower.
  FALSTAFF. My lord!
  CHIEF JUSTICE. What's the matter?
  FALSTAFF. Master Gower, shall I entreat you with me to dinner?
  GOWER. I must wait upon my good lord here, I thank you, good Sir
    John.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. Sir John, you loiter here too long, being you are to
    take soldiers up in counties as you go.
  FALSTAFF. Will you sup with me, Master Gower?
  CHIEF JUSTICE. What foolish master taught you these manners, Sir
    John?
  FALSTAFF. Master Gower, if they become me not, he was a fool that
    taught them me. This is the right fencing grace, my lord; tap for
    tap, and so part fair.
  CHIEF JUSTICE. Now, the Lord lighten thee! Thou art a great fool.
                                                          Exeunt




SCENE II.
London. Another street

Enter PRINCE HENRY and POINS

  PRINCE. Before God, I am exceeding weary.
  POINS. Is't come to that? I had thought weariness durst not have
    attach'd one of so high blood.
  PRINCE. Faith, it does me; though it discolours the complexion of
    my greatness to acknowledge it. Doth it not show vilely in me to
    desire small beer?
  POINS. Why, a prince should not be so loosely studied as to
    remember so weak a composition.
  PRINCE. Belike then my appetite was not-princely got; for, by my
    troth, I do now remember the poor creature, small beer. But
    indeed these humble considerations make me out of love with my
    greatness. What a disgrace is it to me to remember thy name, or
    to know thy face to-morrow, or to take note how many pair of silk
    stockings thou hast- viz., these, and those that were thy
    peach-colour'd ones- or to bear the inventory of thy shirts- as,
    one for superfluity, and another for use! But that the
    tennis-court-keeper knows better than I; for it is a low ebb of
    linen with thee when thou keepest not racket there; as thou hast
    not done a great while, because the rest of thy low countries
    have made a shift to eat up thy holland. And God knows whether
    those that bawl out of the ruins of thy linen shall inherit his
    kingdom; but the midwives say the children are not in the fault;
    whereupon the world increases, and kindreds are mightily
    strengthened.
  POINS. How ill it follows, after you have laboured so hard, you
    should talk so idly! Tell me, how many good young princes would
    do so, their fathers being so sick as yours at this time is?
  PRINCE. Shall I tell thee one thing, Poins?
  POINS. Yes, faith; and let it be an excellent good thing.
  PRINCE. It shall serve among wits of no higher breeding than thine.
  POINS. Go to; I stand the push of your one thing that you will
    tell.
  PRINCE. Marry, I tell thee it is not meet that I should be sad, now
    my father is sick; albeit I could tell to thee- as to one it
    pleases me, for fault of a better, to call my friend- I could be
    sad and sad indeed too.
  POINS. Very hardly upon such a subject.
  PRINCE. By this hand, thou thinkest me as far in the devil's book
    as thou and Falstaff for obduracy and persistency: let the end
    try the man. But I tell thee my heart bleeds inwardly that my
    father is so sick; and keeping such vile company as thou art hath
    in reason taken from me all ostentation of sorrow.
  POINS. The reason?
  PRINCE. What wouldst thou think of me if I should weep?
  POINS. I would think thee a most princely hypocrite.
  PRINCE. It would be every man's thought; and thou art a blessed
    fellow to think as every man thinks. Never a man's thought in the
    world keeps the road-way better than thine. Every man would think
    me an hypocrite indeed. And what accites your most worshipful
    thought to think so?
  POINS. Why, because you have been so lewd and so much engraffed to
    Falstaff.
  PRINCE. And to thee.
  POINS. By this light, I am well spoke on; I can hear it with mine
    own ears. The worst that they can say of me is that I am a second
    brother and that I am a proper fellow of my hands; and those two
    things, I confess, I cannot help. By the mass, here comes
    Bardolph.

                         Enter BARDOLPH and PAGE

  PRINCE. And the boy that I gave Falstaff. 'A had him from me
    Christian; and look if the fat villain have not transform'd him
    ape.
  BARDOLPH. God save your Grace!
  PRINCE. And yours, most noble Bardolph!
  POINS. Come, you virtuous ass, you bashful fool, must you be
    blushing? Wherefore blush you now? What a maidenly man-at-arms
    are you become! Is't such a matter to get a pottle-pot's
    maidenhead?
  PAGE. 'A calls me e'en now, my lord, through a red lattice, and I
    could discern no part of his face from the window. At last I
    spied his eyes; and methought he had made two holes in the
    alewife's new petticoat, and so peep'd through.
  PRINCE. Has not the boy profited?
  BARDOLPH. Away, you whoreson upright rabbit, away!
  PAGE. Away, you rascally Althaea's dream, away!
  PRINCE. Instruct us, boy; what dream, boy?
  PAGE. Marry, my lord, Althaea dreamt she was delivered of a
    firebrand; and therefore I call him her dream.
  PRINCE. A crown's worth of good interpretation. There 'tis, boy.
                                                [Giving a crown]
  POINS. O that this blossom could be kept from cankers!
    Well, there is sixpence to preserve thee.
  BARDOLPH. An you do not make him be hang'd among you, the gallows
    shall have wrong.
  PRINCE. And how doth thy master, Bardolph?
  BARDOLPH. Well, my lord. He heard of your Grace's coming to town.
    There's a letter for you.
  POINS. Deliver'd with good respect. And how doth the martlemas,
    your master?
  BARDOLPH. In bodily health, sir.
  POINS. Marry, the immortal part needs a physician; but that moves
    not him. Though that be sick, it dies not.
  PRINCE. I do allow this well to be as familiar with me as my dog;
    and he holds his place, for look you how he writes.
  POINS.  [Reads]  'John Falstaff, knight'- Every man must know that
    as oft as he has occasion to name himself, even like those that
    are kin to the King; for they never prick their finger but they
    say 'There's some of the King's blood spilt.' 'How comes that?'
    says he that takes upon him not to conceive. The answer is as
    ready as a borrower's cap: 'I am the King's poor cousin, sir.'
  PRINCE. Nay, they will be kin to us, or they will fetch it from
    Japhet. But the letter:  [Reads]  'Sir John Falstaff, knight, to
    the son of the King nearest his father, Harry Prince of Wales,
    greeting.'
  POINS. Why, this is a certificate.
  PRINCE. Peace!  [Reads]  'I will imitate the honourable Romans in
    brevity.'-
  POINS. He sure means brevity in breath, short-winded.
  PRINCE.  [Reads]  'I commend me to thee, I commend thee, and I
    leave thee. Be not too familiar with Poins; for he misuses thy
    favours so much that he swears thou art to marry his sister Nell.
    Repent at idle times as thou mayst, and so farewell.
      Thine, by yea and no- which is as much as to say as
        thou usest him- JACK FALSTAFF with my familiars,
        JOHN with my brothers and sisters, and SIR JOHN with
        all Europe.'
  POINS. My lord, I'll steep this letter in sack and make him eat it.
  PRINCE. That's to make him eat twenty of his words. But do you use
    me thus, Ned? Must I marry your sister?
  POINS. God send the wench no worse fortune! But I never said so.
  PRINCE. Well, thus we play the fools with the time, and the spirits
    of the wise sit in the clouds and mock us. Is your master here in
    London?
  BARDOLPH. Yea, my lord.
  PRINCE. Where sups he? Doth the old boar feed in the old frank?
  BARDOLPH. At the old place, my lord, in Eastcheap.
  PRINCE. What company?
  PAGE. Ephesians, my lord, of the old church.
  PRINCE. Sup any women with him?
  PAGE. None, my lord, but old Mistress Quickly and Mistress Doll
    Tearsheet.
  PRINCE. What pagan may that be?
  PAGE. A proper gentlewoman, sir, and a kinswoman of my master's.
  PRINCE. Even such kin as the parish heifers are to the town bull.
    Shall we steal upon them, Ned, at supper?
  POINS. I am your shadow, my lord; I'll follow you.
  PRINCE. Sirrah, you boy, and Bardolph, no word to your master that
    I am yet come to town. There's for your silence.
  BARDOLPH. I have no tongue, sir.
  PAGE. And for mine, sir, I will govern it.
  PRINCE. Fare you well; go.            Exeunt BARDOLPH and PAGE
    This Doll Tearsheet should be some road.
  POINS. I warrant you, as common as the way between Saint Albans and
    London.
  PRINCE. How might we see Falstaff bestow himself to-night in his
    true colours, and not ourselves be seen?
  POINS. Put on two leathern jerkins and aprons, and wait upon him at
    his table as drawers.
  PRINCE. From a god to a bull? A heavy descension! It was Jove's
    case. From a prince to a prentice? A low transformation! That
    shall be mine; for in everything the purpose must weigh with the
    folly. Follow me, Ned.
                                                          Exeunt




SCENE III.
Warkworth. Before the castle

Enter NORTHUMBERLAND, LADY NORTHUMBERLAND, and LADY PERCY

  NORTHUMBERLAND. I pray thee, loving wife, and gentle daughter,
    Give even way unto my rough affairs;
    Put not you on the visage of the times
    And be, like them, to Percy troublesome.
  LADY NORTHUMBERLAND. I have given over, I will speak no more.
    Do what you will; your wisdom be your guide.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. Alas, sweet wife, my honour is at pawn;
    And but my going nothing can redeem it.
  LADY PERCY. O, yet, for God's sake, go not to these wars!
    The time was, father, that you broke your word,
    When you were more endear'd to it than now;
    When your own Percy, when my heart's dear Harry,
    Threw many a northward look to see his father
    Bring up his powers; but he did long in vain.
    Who then persuaded you to stay at home?
    There were two honours lost, yours and your son's.
    For yours, the God of heaven brighten it!
    For his, it stuck upon him as the sun
    In the grey vault of heaven; and by his light
    Did all the chivalry of England move
    To do brave acts. He was indeed the glass
    Wherein the noble youth did dress themselves.
    He had no legs that practis'd not his gait;
    And speaking thick, which nature made his blemish,
    Became the accents of the valiant;
    For those who could speak low and tardily
    Would turn their own perfection to abuse
    To seem like him: so that in speech, in gait,
    In diet, in affections of delight,
    In military rules, humours of blood,
    He was the mark and glass, copy and book,
    That fashion'd others. And him- O wondrous him!
    O miracle of men!- him did you leave-
    Second to none, unseconded by you-
    To look upon the hideous god of war
    In disadvantage, to abide a field
    Where nothing but the sound of Hotspur's name
    Did seem defensible. So you left him.
    Never, O never, do his ghost the wrong
    To hold your honour more precise and nice
    With others than with him! Let them alone.
    The Marshal and the Archbishop are strong.
    Had my sweet Harry had but half their numbers,
    To-day might I, hanging on Hotspur's neck,
    Have talk'd of Monmouth's grave.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. Beshrew your heart,
    Fair daughter, you do draw my spirits from me
    With new lamenting ancient oversights.
    But I must go and meet with danger there,
    Or it will seek me in another place,
    And find me worse provided.
  LADY NORTHUMBERLAND. O, fly to Scotland
    Till that the nobles and the armed commons
    Have of their puissance made a little taste.
  LADY PERCY. If they get ground and vantage of the King,
    Then join you with them, like a rib of steel,
    To make strength stronger; but, for all our loves,
    First let them try themselves. So did your son;
    He was so suff'red; so came I a widow;
    And never shall have length of life enough
    To rain upon remembrance with mine eyes,
    That it may grow and sprout as high as heaven,
    For recordation to my noble husband.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. Come, come, go in with me. 'Tis with my mind
    As with the tide swell'd up unto his height,
    That makes a still-stand, running neither way.
    Fain would I go to meet the Archbishop,
    But many thousand reasons hold me back.
    I will resolve for Scotland. There am I,
    Till time and vantage crave my company.               Exeunt




SCENE IV.
London. The Boar's Head Tavern in Eastcheap

Enter FRANCIS and another DRAWER

  FRANCIS. What the devil hast thou brought there-apple-johns? Thou
    knowest Sir John cannot endure an apple-john.
  SECOND DRAWER. Mass, thou say'st true. The Prince once set a dish
    of apple-johns before him, and told him there were five more Sir
    Johns; and, putting off his hat, said 'I will now take my leave
    of these six dry, round, old, withered knights.' It ang'red him
    to the heart; but he hath forgot that.
  FRANCIS. Why, then, cover and set them down; and see if thou canst
    find out Sneak's noise; Mistress Tearsheet would fain hear some
    music.

                        Enter third DRAWER

  THIRD DRAWER. Dispatch! The room where they supp'd is too hot;
    they'll come in straight.
  FRANCIS. Sirrah, here will be the Prince and Master Poins anon; and
    they will put on two of our jerkins and aprons; and Sir John must
    not know of it. Bardolph hath brought word.
  THIRD DRAWER. By the mass, here will be old uds; it will be an
    excellent stratagem.
  SECOND DRAWER. I'll see if I can find out Sneak.
                                 Exeunt second and third DRAWERS

                Enter HOSTESS and DOLL TEARSHEET

  HOSTESS. I' faith, sweetheart, methinks now you are in an excellent
    good temperality. Your pulsidge beats as extraordinarily as heart
    would desire; and your colour, I warrant you, is as red as any
    rose, in good truth, la! But, i' faith, you have drunk too much
    canaries; and that's a marvellous searching wine, and it perfumes
    the blood ere one can say 'What's this?' How do you now?
  DOLL. Better than I was- hem.
  HOSTESS. Why, that's well said; a good heart's worth gold.
    Lo, here comes Sir John.

                          Enter FALSTAFF

  FALSTAFF.  [Singing]  'When Arthur first in court'- Empty the
    jordan.  [Exit FRANCIS]- [Singing]  'And was a worthy king'- How
    now, Mistress Doll!
  HOSTESS. Sick of a calm; yea, good faith.
  FALSTAFF. So is all her sect; and they be once in a calm, they are
    sick.
  DOLL. A pox damn you, you muddy rascal! Is that all the comfort you
    give me?
  FALSTAFF. You make fat rascals, Mistress Doll.
  DOLL. I make them! Gluttony and diseases make them: I make them
    not.
  FALSTAFF. If the cook help to make the gluttony, you help to make
    the diseases, Doll. We catch of you, Doll, we catch of you; grant
    that, my poor virtue, grant that.
  DOLL. Yea, joy, our chains and our jewels.
  FALSTAFF. 'Your brooches, pearls, and ouches.' For to serve bravely
    is to come halting off; you know, to come off the breach with his
    pike bent bravely, and to surgery bravely; to venture upon the
    charg'd chambers bravely-
  DOLL. Hang yourself, you muddy conger, hang yourself!
  HOSTESS. By my troth, this is the old fashion; you two never meet
    but you fall to some discord. You are both, i' good truth, as
    rheumatic as two dry toasts; you cannot one bear with another's
    confirmities. What the good-year! one must bear, and that must be
    you. You are the weaker vessel, as as they say, the emptier
    vessel.
  DOLL. Can a weak empty vessel bear such a huge full hogs-head?
    There's a whole merchant's venture of Bourdeaux stuff in him; you
    have not seen a hulk better stuff'd in the hold. Come, I'll be
    friends with thee, Jack. Thou art going to the wars; and whether
    I shall ever see thee again or no, there is nobody cares.

                            Re-enter FRANCIS

  FRANCIS. Sir, Ancient Pistol's below and would speak with you.
  DOLL. Hang him, swaggering rascal! Let him not come hither; it is
    the foul-mouth'dst rogue in England.
  HOSTESS. If he swagger, let him not come here. No, by my faith! I
    must live among my neighbours; I'll no swaggerers. I am in good
    name and fame with the very best. Shut the door. There comes no
    swaggerers here; I have not liv'd all this while to have
    swaggering now. Shut the door, I pray you.
  FALSTAFF. Dost thou hear, hostess?
  HOSTESS. Pray ye, pacify yourself, Sir John; there comes no
    swaggerers here.
  FALSTAFF. Dost thou hear? It is mine ancient.
  HOSTESS. Tilly-fally, Sir John, ne'er tell me; and your ancient
    swagg'rer comes not in my doors. I was before Master Tisick, the
    debuty, t' other day; and, as he said to me- 'twas no longer ago
    than Wednesday last, i' good faith!- 'Neighbour Quickly,' says
    he- Master Dumbe, our minister, was by then- 'Neighbour Quickly,'
    says he 'receive those that are civil, for' said he 'you are in
    an ill name.' Now 'a said so, I can tell whereupon. 'For' says he
    'you are an honest woman and well thought on, therefore take heed
    what guests you receive. Receive' says he 'no swaggering
    companions.' There comes none here. You would bless you to hear
    what he said. No, I'll no swagg'rers.
  FALSTAFF. He's no swagg'rer, hostess; a tame cheater, i' faith; you
    may stroke him as gently as a puppy greyhound. He'll not swagger
    with a Barbary hen, if her feathers turn back in any show of
    resistance. Call him up, drawer.
                                                    Exit FRANCIS
  HOSTESS. Cheater, call you him? I will bar no honest man my house,
    nor no cheater; but I do not love swaggering, by my troth. I am
    the worse when one says 'swagger.' Feel, masters, how I shake;
    look you, I warrant you.
  DOLL. So you do, hostess.
  HOSTESS. Do I? Yea, in very truth, do I, an 'twere an aspen leaf. I
    cannot abide swagg'rers.

                   Enter PISTOL, BARDOLPH, and PAGE

  PISTOL. God save you, Sir John!
  FALSTAFF. Welcome, Ancient Pistol. Here, Pistol, I charge you with
    a cup of sack; do you discharge upon mine hostess.
  PISTOL. I will discharge upon her, Sir John, with two bullets.
  FALSTAFF. She is pistol-proof, sir; you shall not hardly offend
    her.
  HOSTESS. Come, I'll drink no proofs nor no bullets. I'll drink no
    more than will do me good, for no man's pleasure, I.
  PISTOL. Then to you, Mistress Dorothy; I will charge you.
  DOLL. Charge me! I scorn you, scurvy companion. What! you poor,
    base, rascally, cheating, lack-linen mate! Away, you mouldy
    rogue, away! I am meat for your master.
  PISTOL. I know you, Mistress Dorothy.
  DOLL. Away, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away! By this
    wine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play the
    saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you
    basket-hilt stale juggler, you! Since when, I pray you, sir?
    God's light, with two points on your shoulder? Much!
  PISTOL. God let me not live but I will murder your ruff for this.
  FALSTAFF. No more, Pistol; I would not have you go off here.
    Discharge yourself of our company, Pistol.
  HOSTESS. No, good Captain Pistol; not here, sweet captain.
  DOLL. Captain! Thou abominable damn'd cheater, art thou not ashamed
    to be called captain? An captains were of my mind, they would
    truncheon you out, for taking their names upon you before you
    have earn'd them. You a captain! you slave, for what? For tearing
    a poor whore's ruff in a bawdy-house? He a captain! hang him,
    rogue! He lives upon mouldy stew'd prunes and dried cakes. A
    captain! God's light, these villains will make the word as odious
    as the word 'occupy'; which was an excellent good word before it
    was ill sorted. Therefore captains had need look to't.
  BARDOLPH. Pray thee go down, good ancient.
  FALSTAFF. Hark thee hither, Mistress Doll.
  PISTOL. Not I! I tell thee what, Corporal Bardolph, I could tear
    her; I'll be reveng'd of her.
  PAGE. Pray thee go down.
  PISTOL. I'll see her damn'd first; to Pluto's damn'd lake, by this
    hand, to th' infernal deep, with Erebus and tortures vile also.
    Hold hook and line, say I. Down, down, dogs! down, faitors! Have
    we not Hiren here?
  HOSTESS. Good Captain Peesel, be quiet; 'tis very late, i' faith; I
    beseek you now, aggravate your choler.
  PISTOL. These be good humours, indeed! Shall packhorses,
    And hollow pamper'd jades of Asia,
    Which cannot go but thirty mile a day,
    Compare with Caesars, and with Cannibals,
    And Troiant Greeks? Nay, rather damn them with
    King Cerberus; and let the welkin roar.
    Shall we fall foul for toys?
  HOSTESS. By my troth, Captain, these are very bitter words.
  BARDOLPH. Be gone, good ancient; this will grow to a brawl anon.
  PISTOL. Die men like dogs! Give crowns like pins! Have we not Hiren
    here?
  HOSTESS. O' my word, Captain, there's none such here. What the
    good-year! do you think I would deny her? For God's sake, be
    quiet.
  PISTOL. Then feed and be fat, my fair Calipolis.
    Come, give's some sack.
    'Si fortune me tormente sperato me contento.'
    Fear we broadsides? No, let the fiend give fire.
    Give me some sack; and, sweetheart, lie thou there.
                                         [Laying down his sword]
    Come we to full points here, and are etceteras nothings?
  FALSTAFF. Pistol, I would be quiet.
  PISTOL. Sweet knight, I kiss thy neaf. What! we have seen the seven
    stars.
  DOLL. For God's sake thrust him down stairs; I cannot endure such a
    fustian rascal.
  PISTOL. Thrust him down stairs! Know we not Galloway nags?
  FALSTAFF. Quoit him down, Bardolph, like a shove-groat shilling.
    Nay, an 'a do nothing but speak nothing, 'a shall be nothing
    here.
  BARDOLPH. Come, get you down stairs.
  PISTOL. What! shall we have incision? Shall we imbrue?
                                        [Snatching up his sword]
    Then death rock me asleep, abridge my doleful days!
    Why, then, let grievous, ghastly, gaping wounds
    Untwine the Sisters Three! Come, Atropos, I say!
  HOSTESS. Here's goodly stuff toward!
  FALSTAFF. Give me my rapier, boy.
  DOLL. I pray thee, Jack, I pray thee, do not draw.
  FALSTAFF. Get you down stairs.
                                [Drawing and driving PISTOL out]
  HOSTESS. Here's a goodly tumult! I'll forswear keeping house afore
    I'll be in these tirrits and frights. So; murder, I warrant now.
    Alas, alas! put up your naked weapons, put up your naked weapons.
                                      Exeunt PISTOL and BARDOLPH
  DOLL. I pray thee, Jack, be quiet; the rascal's gone. Ah, you
    whoreson little valiant villain, you!
  HOSTESS. Are you not hurt i' th' groin? Methought 'a made a shrewd
    thrust at your belly.

                        Re-enter BARDOLPH

  FALSTAFF. Have you turn'd him out a doors?
  BARDOLPH. Yea, sir. The rascal's drunk. You have hurt him, sir, i'
    th' shoulder.
  FALSTAFF. A rascal! to brave me!
  DOLL. Ah, you sweet little rogue, you! Alas, poor ape, how thou
    sweat'st! Come, let me wipe thy face. Come on, you whoreson
    chops. Ah, rogue! i' faith, I love thee. Thou art as valorous as
    Hector of Troy, worth five of Agamemnon, and ten times better
    than the Nine Worthies. Ah, villain!
  FALSTAFF. A rascally slave! I will toss the rogue in a blanket.
  DOLL. Do, an thou dar'st for thy heart. An thou dost, I'll canvass
    thee between a pair of sheets.

                          Enter musicians

  PAGE. The music is come, sir.
  FALSTAFF. Let them play. Play, sirs. Sit on my knee, Don. A rascal
    bragging slave! The rogue fled from me like quick-silver.
  DOLL. I' faith, and thou follow'dst him like a church. Thou
    whoreson little tidy Bartholomew boar-pig, when wilt thou leave
    fighting a days and foining a nights, and begin to patch up thine
    old body for heaven?

       Enter, behind, PRINCE HENRY and POINS disguised as drawers

  FALSTAFF. Peace, good Doll! Do not speak like a death's-head; do
    not bid me remember mine end.
  DOLL. Sirrah, what humour's the Prince of?
  FALSTAFF. A good shallow young fellow. 'A would have made a good
    pantler; 'a would ha' chipp'd bread well.
  DOLL. They say Poins has a good wit.
  FALSTAFF. He a good wit! hang him, baboon! His wit's as thick as
    Tewksbury mustard; there's no more conceit in him than is in a
    mallet.
  DOLL. Why does the Prince love him so, then?
  FALSTAFF. Because their legs are both of a bigness, and 'a plays at
    quoits well, and eats conger and fennel, and drinks off candles'
    ends for flap-dragons, and rides the wild mare with the boys, and
    jumps upon join'd-stools, and swears with a good grace, and wears
    his boots very smooth, like unto the sign of the Leg, and breeds
    no bate with telling of discreet stories; and such other gambol
    faculties 'a has, that show a weak mind and an able body, for the
    which the Prince admits him. For the Prince himself is such
    another; the weight of a hair will turn the scales between their
    avoirdupois.
  PRINCE. Would not this nave of a wheel have his ears cut off?
  POINS. Let's beat him before his whore.
  PRINCE. Look whe'er the wither'd elder hath not his poll claw'd
    like a parrot.
  POINS. Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive
    performance?
  FALSTAFF. Kiss me, Doll.
  PRINCE. Saturn and Venus this year in conjunction! What says th'
    almanac to that?
  POINS. And look whether the fiery Trigon, his man, be not lisping
    to his master's old tables, his note-book, his counsel-keeper.
  FALSTAFF. Thou dost give me flattering busses.
  DOLL. By my troth, I kiss thee with a most constant heart.
  FALSTAFF. I am old, I am old.
  DOLL. I love thee better than I love e'er a scurvy young boy of
    them all.
  FALSTAFF. What stuff wilt have a kirtle of? I shall receive money a
    Thursday. Shalt have a cap to-morrow. A merry song, come. 'A
    grows late; we'll to bed. Thou't forget me when I am gone.
  DOLL. By my troth, thou't set me a-weeping, an thou say'st so.
    Prove that ever I dress myself handsome till thy return. Well,
    hearken a' th' end.
  FALSTAFF. Some sack, Francis.
  PRINCE & POINS. Anon, anon, sir.                   [Advancing]
  FALSTAFF. Ha! a bastard son of the King's? And art thou not Poins
    his brother?
  PRINCE. Why, thou globe of sinful continents, what a life dost thou
    lead!
  FALSTAFF. A better than thou. I am a gentleman: thou art a drawer.
  PRINCE. Very true, sir, and I come to draw you out by the ears.
  HOSTESS. O, the Lord preserve thy Grace! By my troth, welcome to
    London. Now the Lord bless that sweet face of thine. O Jesu, are
    you come from Wales?
  FALSTAFF. Thou whoreson mad compound of majesty, by this light
    flesh and corrupt blood, thou art welcome.
                                    [Leaning his band upon DOLL]
  DOLL. How, you fat fool! I scorn you.
  POINS. My lord, he will drive you out of your revenge and turn all
    to a merriment, if you take not the heat.
  PRINCE. YOU whoreson candle-mine, you, how vilely did you speak of
    me even now before this honest, virtuous, civil gentlewoman!
  HOSTESS. God's blessing of your good heart! and so she is, by my
    troth.
  FALSTAFF. Didst thou hear me?
  PRINCE. Yea; and you knew me, as you did when you ran away by
    Gadshill. You knew I was at your back, and spoke it on purpose to
    try my patience.
  FALSTAFF. No, no, no; not so; I did not think thou wast within
    hearing.
  PRINCE. I shall drive you then to confess the wilful abuse, and
    then I know how to handle you.
  FALSTAFF. No abuse, Hal, o' mine honour; no abuse.
  PRINCE. Not- to dispraise me, and call me pander, and
    bread-chipper, and I know not what!
  FALSTAFF. No abuse, Hal.
  POINS. No abuse!
  FALSTAFF. No abuse, Ned, i' th' world; honest Ned, none. I
    disprais'd him before the wicked- that the wicked might not fall
    in love with thee; 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.
  PRINCE. 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.
  FALSTAFF. The fiend hath prick'd down Bardolph irrecoverable; and
    his face is Lucifer's privy-kitchen, where he doth nothing but
    roast malt-worms. For the boy- there is a good angel about him;
    but the devil outbids him too.
  PRINCE. For the women?
  FALSTAFF. For one of them- she's in hell already, and burns poor
    souls. For th' other- I owe her money; and whether she be damn'd
    for that, I know not.
  HOSTESS. No, I warrant you.
  FALSTAFF. No, I think thou art not; I think thou art quit for that.
    Marry, there is another indictment upon thee for suffering flesh
    to be eaten in thy house, contrary to the law; for the which I
    think thou wilt howl.
  HOSTESS. All vict'lers do so. What's a joint of mutton or two in a
    whole Lent?
  PRINCE. You, gentlewoman-
  DOLL. What says your Grace?
  FALSTAFF. His Grace says that which his flesh rebels against.
                                               [Knocking within]
  HOSTESS. Who knocks so loud at door? Look to th' door there,
    Francis.

                              Enter PETO

  PRINCE. 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.
  PRINCE. 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 night.

                        Exeunt PRINCE, POINS, PETO, and BARDOLPH

  FALSTAFF. Now comes in the sweetest morsel of the night, and we
    must hence, and leave it unpick'd.  [Knocking within]  More
    knocking at the door!

                      Re-enter BARDOLPH

    How now! What's the matter?
  BARDOLPH. You must away to court, sir, presently;
    A dozen captains stay at door for you.
  FALSTAFF.  [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 call'd 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.
  FALSTAFF. Farewell, farewell.
                                    Exeunt FALSTAFF and BARDOLPH
  HOSTESS. 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.
  BARDOLPH.  [ Within]  Mistress Tearsheet!
  HOSTESS. What's the matter?
  BARDOLPH.  [ Within]  Bid Mistress Tearsheet come to my master.
  HOSTESS. O, run Doll, run, run, good Come.  [To BARDOLPH]  She
    comes blubber'd.- Yea, will you come, Doll?           Exeunt




<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
COMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANY
SERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP.>>



ACT III. SCENE I.
Westminster. The palace

Enter the KING in his nightgown, with a page

  KING. 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 frightened thee,
    That thou no more will weigh my eyelids down,
    And steep my senses in forgetfulness?
    Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,
    Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,
    And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber,
    Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great,
    Under the canopies of costly state,
    And lull'd with sound 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 deafing clamour 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.

                    Enter WARWICK and Surrey

  WARWICK. Many good morrows to your Majesty!
  KING. Is it good morrow, lords?
  WARWICK. 'Tis one o'clock, and past.
  KING. Why then, good morrow to you all, my lords.
    Have you read o'er the letters that I sent you?
  WARWICK. We have, my liege.
  KING. Then you perceive the body of our kingdom
    How foul it is; what rank diseases grow,
    And with what danger, near the heart of it.
  WARWICK. It is but as a body yet distempered;
    Which to his former strength may be restored
    With good advice and little medicine.
    My Lord Northumberland will soon be cool'd.
  KING. O God! that one might read the book of fate,
    And see the revolution of the times
    Make mountains level, and the continent,
    Weary of solid firmness, melt itself
    Into the sea; and other times to see
    The beachy girdle of the ocean
    Too wide for Neptune's hips; how chances mock,
    And changes fill the cup of alteration
    With divers liquors! O, if this were seen,
    The happiest youth, viewing his progress through,
    What perils past, what crosses to ensue,
    Would shut the book and sit him down and die.
    'Tis not ten years gone
    Since Richard and Northumberland, great friends,
    Did feast together, and in two years after
    Were they at wars. It is but eight years since
    This Percy was the man nearest my soul;
    Who like a brother toil'd in my affairs
    And laid his love and life under my foot;
    Yea, for my sake, even to the eyes of Richard
    Gave him defiance. But which of you was by-
    [To WARWICK]  You, cousin Nevil, as I may remember-
    When Richard, with his eye brim full of tears,
    Then check'd and rated by Northumberland,
    Did speak these words, now prov'd a prophecy?
    'Northumberland, thou ladder by the which
    My cousin Bolingbroke ascends my throne'-
    Though then, God knows, I had no such intent
    But that necessity so bow'd the state
    That I and greatness were compell'd to kiss-
    'The time shall come'- thus did he follow it-
    'The time will come that foul sin, gathering head,
    Shall break into corruption' so went on,
    Foretelling this same time's condition
    And the division of our amity.
  WARWICK. There is a history in all men's lives,
    Figuring the natures of the times deceas'd;
    The which observ'd, a man may prophesy,
    With a near aim, of the main chance of things
    As yet not come to life, who in their seeds
    And weak beginning lie intreasured.
    Such things become the hatch and brood of time;
    And, by the necessary form of this,
    King Richard might create a perfect guess
    That great Northumberland, then false to him,
    Would of that seed grow to a greater falseness;
    Which should not find a ground to root upon
    Unless on you.
  KING. Are these things then necessities?
    Then let us meet them like necessities;
    And that same word even now cries out on us.
    They say the Bishop and Northumberland
    Are fifty thousand strong.
  WARWICK. It cannot be, my lord.
    Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo,
    The numbers of the feared. Please it your Grace
    To go to bed. Upon my soul, my lord,
    The powers that you already have sent forth
    Shall bring this prize in very easily.
    To comfort you the more, I have receiv'd
    A certain instance that Glendower is dead.
    Your Majesty hath been this fortnight ill;
    And these unseasoned hours perforce must ad
    Unto your sickness.
  KING. I will take your counsel.
    And, were these inward wars once out of hand,
    We would, dear lords, unto the Holy Land.            Exeunt




SCENE II.
Gloucestershire. Before Justice, SHALLOW'S house

Enter SHALLOW and SILENCE, meeting; MOULDY, SHADOW, WART, FEEBLE, BULLCALF,
and servants behind

  SHALLOW. Come on, come on, come on; give me your hand, sir; give me
    your hand, sir. An early stirrer, by the rood! And how doth my
    good cousin Silence?
  SILENCE. Good morrow, good cousin Shallow.
  SHALLOW. And how doth my cousin, your bed-fellow? and your fairest
    daughter and mine, my god-daughter Ellen?
  SILENCE. Alas, a black ousel, cousin Shallow!
  SHALLOW. By yea and no, sir. I dare say my cousin William is become
    a good scholar; he is at Oxford still, is he not?
  SILENCE. Indeed, sir, to my cost.
  SHALLOW. 'A must, then, to the Inns o' Court shortly. I was once of
    Clement's Inn; where I think they will talk of mad Shallow yet.
  SILENCE. You were call'd 'lusty Shallow' then, cousin.
  SHALLOW. By the mass, I was call'd anything; and I would have done
    anything indeed too, and roundly too. There was I, and little
    John Doit of Staffordshire, and black George Barnes, and Francis
    Pickbone, and Will Squele a Cotsole man- you had not four such
    swinge-bucklers in all the Inns of Court again. And I may say to
    you we knew where the bona-robas were, and had the best of them
    all at commandment. Then was Jack Falstaff, now Sir John, boy,
    and page to Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk.
  SILENCE. This Sir John, cousin, that comes hither anon about
    soldiers?
  SHALLOW. The same Sir John, the very same. I see him break
    Scoggin's head at the court gate, when 'a was a crack not thus
    high; and the very same day did I fight with one Sampson
    Stockfish, a fruiterer, behind Gray's Inn. Jesu, Jesu, the mad
    days that I have spent! and to see how many of my old
    acquaintance are dead!
  SILENCE. We shall all follow, cousin.
  SHALLOW. Certain, 'tis certain; very sure, very sure. Death, as the
    Psalmist saith, is certain to all; all shall die. How a good yoke
    of bullocks at Stamford fair?
  SILENCE. By my troth, I was not there.
  SHALLOW. Death is certain. Is old Double of your town living yet?
  SILENCE. Dead, sir.
  SHALLOW. Jesu, Jesu, dead! drew a good bow; and dead! 'A shot a
    fine shoot. John a Gaunt loved him well, and betted much money on
    his head. Dead! 'A would have clapp'd i' th' clout at twelve
    score, and carried you a forehand shaft a fourteen and fourteen
    and a half, that it would have done a man's heart good to see.
    How a score of ewes now?
  SILENCE. Thereafter as they be- a score of good ewes may be worth
    ten pounds.
  SHALLOW. And is old Double dead?

                    Enter BARDOLPH, and one with him

  SILENCE. Here come two of Sir John Falstaffs men, as I think.
  SHALLOW. Good morrow, honest gentlemen.
  BARDOLPH. I beseech you, which is Justice Shallow?
  SHALLOW. I am Robert Shallow, sir, a poor esquire of this county,
    and one of the King's justices of the peace. What is your good
    pleasure with me?
  BARDOLPH. My captain, sir, commends him to you; my captain, Sir
    John Falstaff- a tall gentleman, by heaven, and a most gallant
    leader.
  SHALLOW. He greets me well, sir; I knew him a good back-sword man.
    How doth the good knight? May I ask how my lady his wife doth?
  BARDOLPH. Sir, pardon; a soldier is better accommodated than with a
    wife.
  SHALLOW. It is well said, in faith, sir; and it is well said indeed
    too. 'Better accommodated!' It is good; yea, indeed, is it. Good
    phrases are surely, and ever were, very commendable.
    'Accommodated!' It comes of accommodo. Very good; a good phrase.
  BARDOLPH. Pardon, sir; I have heard the word. 'Phrase' call you it?
    By this day, I know not the phrase; but I will maintain the word
    with my sword to be a soldier-like word, and a word of exceeding
    good command, by heaven. Accommodated: that is, when a man is, as
    they say, accommodated; or, when a man is being-whereby 'a may be
    thought to be accommodated; which is an excellent thing.

                              Enter FALSTAFF

  SHALLOW. It is very just. Look, here comes good Sir John. Give me
    your good hand, give me your worship's good hand. By my troth,
    you like well and bear your years very well. Welcome, good Sir
    John.
  FALSTAFF. I am glad to see you well, good Master Robert Shallow.
    Master Surecard, as I think?
  SHALLOW. No, Sir John; it is my cousin Silence, in commission with
   me.
  FALSTAFF. Good Master Silence, it well befits you should be of the
    peace.
  SILENCE. Your good worship is welcome.
  FALSTAFF. Fie! this is hot weather. Gentlemen, have you provided me
    here half a dozen sufficient men?
  SHALLOW. Marry, have we, sir. Will you sit?
  FALSTAFF. Let me see them, I beseech you.
  SHALLOW. Where's the roll? Where's the roll? Where's the roll? Let
    me see, let me see, let me see. So, so, so, so,- so, so- yea,
    marry, sir. Rafe Mouldy! Let them appear as I call; let them do
    so, let them do so. Let me see; where is Mouldy?
  MOULDY. Here, an't please you.
  SHALLOW. What think you, Sir John? A good-limb'd fellow; young,
    strong, and of good friends.
  FALSTAFF. Is thy name Mouldy?
  MOULDY. Yea, an't please you.
  FALSTAFF. 'Tis the more time thou wert us'd.
  SHALLOW. Ha, ha, ha! most excellent, i' faith! Things that are
    mouldy lack use. Very singular good! In faith, well said, Sir
    John; very well said.
  FALSTAFF. Prick him.
  MOULDY. I was prick'd well enough before, an you could have let me
    alone. My old dame will be undone now for one to do her husbandry
    and her drudgery. You need not to have prick'd me; there are
    other men fitter to go out than I.
  FALSTAFF. Go to; peace, Mouldy; you shall go. Mouldy, it is time
    you were spent.
  MOULDY. Spent!
  SHALLOW. Peace, fellow, peace; stand aside; know you where you are?
    For th' other, Sir John- let me see. Simon Shadow!
  FALSTAFF. Yea, marry, let me have him to sit under. He's like to be
    a cold soldier.
  SHALLOW. Where's Shadow?
  SHADOW. Here, sir.
  FALSTAFF. Shadow, whose son art thou?
  SHADOW. My mother's son, sir.
  FALSTAFF. Thy mother's son! Like enough; and thy father's shadow.
    So the son of the female is the shadow of the male. It is often
    so indeed; but much of the father's substance!
  SHALLOW. Do you like him, Sir John?
  FALSTAFF. Shadow will serve for summer. Prick him; for we have a
    number of shadows fill up the muster-book.
  SHALLOW. Thomas Wart!
  FALSTAFF. Where's he?
  WART. Here, sir.
  FALSTAFF. Is thy name Wart?
  WART. Yea, sir.
  FALSTAFF. Thou art a very ragged wart.
  SHALLOW. Shall I prick him, Sir John?
  FALSTAFF. It were superfluous; for his apparel is built upon his
    back, and the whole frame stands upon pins. Prick him no more.
  SHALLOW. Ha, ha, ha! You can do it, sir; you can do it. I commend
    you well. Francis Feeble!
  FEEBLE. Here, sir.
  FALSTAFF. What trade art thou, Feeble?
  FEEBLE. A woman's tailor, sir.
  SHALLOW. Shall I prick him, sir?
  FALSTAFF. You may; but if he had been a man's tailor, he'd ha'
    prick'd you. Wilt thou make as many holes in an enemy's battle as
    thou hast done in a woman's petticoat?
  FEEBLE. I will do my good will, sir; you can have no more.
  FALSTAFF. Well said, good woman's tailor! well said, courageous
    Feeble! Thou wilt be as valiant as the wrathful dove or most
    magnanimous mouse. Prick the woman's tailor- well, Master
    Shallow, deep, Master Shallow.
  FEEBLE. I would Wart might have gone, sir.
  FALSTAFF. I would thou wert a man's tailor, that thou mightst mend
    him and make him fit to go. I cannot put him to a private
    soldier, that is the leader of so many thousands. Let that
    suffice, most forcible Feeble.
  FEEBLE. It shall suffice, sir.
  FALSTAFF. I am bound to thee, reverend Feeble. Who is next?
  SHALLOW. Peter Bullcalf o' th' green!
  FALSTAFF. Yea, marry, let's see Bullcalf.
  BULLCALF. Here, sir.
  FALSTAFF. Fore God, a likely fellow! Come, prick me Bullcalf till
    he roar again.
  BULLCALF. O Lord! good my lord captain-
  FALSTAFF. What, dost thou roar before thou art prick'd?
  BULLCALF. O Lord, sir! I am a diseased man.
  FALSTAFF. What disease hast thou?
  BULLCALF. A whoreson cold, sir, a cough, sir, which I caught with
    ringing in the King's affairs upon his coronation day, sir.
  FALSTAFF. Come, thou shalt go to the wars in a gown. We will have
    away thy cold; and I will take such order that thy friends shall
    ring for thee. Is here all?
  SHALLOW. Here is two more call'd than your number. You must have
    but four here, sir; and so, I pray you, go in with me to dinner.
  FALSTAFF. Come, I will go drink with you, but I cannot tarry
    dinner. I am glad to see you, by my troth, Master Shallow.
  SHALLOW. O, Sir John, do you remember since we lay all night in the
    windmill in Saint George's Field?
  FALSTAFF. No more of that, Master Shallow, no more of that.
  SHALLOW. Ha, 'twas a merry night. And is Jane Nightwork alive?
  FALSTAFF. She lives, Master Shallow.
  SHALLOW. She never could away with me.
  FALSTAFF. Never, never; she would always say she could not abide
    Master Shallow.
  SHALLOW. By the mass, I could anger her to th' heart. She was then
    a bona-roba. Doth she hold her own well?
  FALSTAFF. Old, old, Master Shallow.
  SHALLOW. Nay, she must be old; she cannot choose but be old;
    certain she's old; and had Robin Nightwork, by old Nightwork,
    before I came to Clement's Inn.
  SILENCE. That's fifty-five year ago.
  SHALLOW. Ha, cousin Silence, that thou hadst seen that that this
    knight and I have seen! Ha, Sir John, said I well?
  FALSTAFF. We have heard the chimes at midnight, Master Shallow.
  SHALLOW. That we have, that we have, that we have; in faith, Sir
    John, we have. Our watchword was 'Hem, boys!' Come, let's to
    dinner; come, let's to dinner. Jesus, the days that we have seen!
    Come, come.
                                Exeunt FALSTAFF and the JUSTICES
  BULLCALF. Good Master Corporate Bardolph, stand my friend; and
    here's four Harry ten shillings in French crowns for you. In very
    truth, sir, I had as lief be hang'd, sir, as go. And yet, for
    mine own part, sir, I do not care; but rather because I am
    unwilling and, for mine own part, have a desire to stay with my
    friends; else, sir, I did not care for mine own part so much.
  BARDOLPH. Go to; stand aside.
  MOULDY. And, good Master Corporal Captain, for my old dame's sake,
    stand my friend. She has nobody to do anything about her when I
    am gone; and she is old, and cannot help herself. You shall have
    forty, sir.
  BARDOLPH. Go to; stand aside.
  FEEBLE. By my troth, I care not; a man can die but once; we owe God
    a death. I'll ne'er bear a base mind. An't be my destiny, so;
    an't be not, so. No man's too good to serve 's Prince; and, let
    it go which way it will, he that dies this year is quit for the
    next.
  BARDOLPH. Well said; th'art a good fellow.
  FEEBLE. Faith, I'll bear no base mind.

                    Re-enter FALSTAFF and the JUSTICES

  FALSTAFF. Come, sir, which men shall I have?
  SHALLOW. Four of which you please.
  BARDOLPH. Sir, a word with you. I have three pound to free Mouldy
    and Bullcalf.
  FALSTAFF. Go to; well.
  SHALLOW. Come, Sir John, which four will you have?
  FALSTAFF. Do you choose for me.
  SHALLOW. Marry, then- Mouldy, Bullcalf, Feeble, and Shadow.
  FALSTAFF. Mouldy and Bullcalf: for you, Mouldy, stay at home till
    you are past service; and for your part, Bullcalf, grow you come
    unto it. I will none of you.
  SHALLOW. Sir John, Sir John, do not yourself wrong. They are your
    likeliest men, and I would have you serv'd with the best.
  FALSTAFF. Will you tell me, Master Shallow, how to choose a man?
    Care I for the limb, the thews, the stature, bulk, and big
    assemblance of a man! Give me the spirit, Master Shallow. Here's
    Wart; you see what a ragged appearance it is. 'A shall charge you
    and discharge you with the motion of a pewterer's hammer, come
    off and on swifter than he that gibbets on the brewer's bucket.
    And this same half-fac'd fellow, Shadow- give me this man. He
    presents no mark to the enemy; the foeman may with as great aim
    level at the edge of a penknife. And, for a retreat- how swiftly
    will this Feeble, the woman's tailor, run off! O, give me the
    spare men, and spare me the great ones. Put me a caliver into
    Wart's hand, Bardolph.
  BARDOLPH. Hold, Wart. Traverse- thus, thus, thus.
  FALSTAFF. Come, manage me your caliver. So- very well. Go to; very
    good; exceeding good. O, give me always a little, lean, old,
    chopt, bald shot. Well said, i' faith, Wart; th'art a good scab.
    Hold, there's a tester for thee.
  SHALLOW. He is not his craft's master, he doth not do it right. I
    remember at Mile-end Green, when I lay at Clement's Inn- I was
    then Sir Dagonet in Arthur's show- there was a little quiver
    fellow, and 'a would manage you his piece thus; and 'a would
    about and about, and come you in and come you in. 'Rah, tah,
    tah!' would 'a say; 'Bounce!' would 'a say; and away again would
    'a go, and again would 'a come. I shall ne'er see such a fellow.
  FALSTAFF. These fellows will do well. Master Shallow, God keep you!
    Master Silence, I will not use many words with you: Fare you
    well! Gentlemen both, I thank you. I must a dozen mile to-night.
    Bardolph, give the soldiers coats.
  SHALLOW. Sir John, the Lord bless you; God prosper your affairs;
    God send us peace! At your return, visit our house; let our old
    acquaintance be renewed. Peradventure I will with ye to the
    court.
  FALSTAFF. Fore God, would you would.
  SHALLOW. Go to; I have spoke at a word. God keep you.
  FALSTAFF. Fare you well, gentle gentlemen.  [Exeunt JUSTICES]  On,
    Bardolph; lead the men away.  [Exeunt all but FALSTAFF]  As I
    return, I will fetch off these justices. I do see the bottom of
    justice Shallow. Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to this
    vice of lying! This same starv'd justice hath done nothing but
    prate to me of the wildness of his youth and the feats he hath
    done about Turnbull Street; and every third word a lie, duer paid
    to the hearer than the Turk's tribute. I do remember him at
    Clement's Inn, like a man made after supper of a cheese-paring.
    When 'a was naked, he was for all the world like a fork'd radish,
    with a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife. 'A was so
    forlorn that his dimensions to any thick sight were invisible. 'A
    was the very genius of famine; yet lecherous as a monkey, and the
    whores call'd him mandrake. 'A came ever in the rearward of the
    fashion, and sung those tunes to the overscutch'd huswifes that
    he heard the carmen whistle, and sware they were his fancies or
    his good-nights. And now is this Vice's dagger become a squire,
    and talks as familiarly of John a Gaunt as if he had been sworn
    brother to him; and I'll be sworn 'a ne'er saw him but once in
    the Tiltyard; and then he burst his head for crowding among the
    marshal's men. I saw it, and told John a Gaunt he beat his own
    name; for you might have thrust him and all his apparel into an
    eel-skin; the case of a treble hautboy was a mansion for him, a
    court- and now has he land and beeves. Well, I'll be acquainted
    with him if I return; and 't shall go hard but I'll make him a
    philosopher's two stones to me. If the young dace be a bait for
    the old pike, I see no reason in the law of nature but I may snap
    at him. Let time shape, and there an end.               Exit




<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
COMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANY
SERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP.>>



ACT IV. SCENE I.
Yorkshire. Within the Forest of Gaultree

Enter the ARCHBISHOP OF YORK, MOWBRAY, HASTINGS, and others

  ARCHBISHOP. What is this forest call'd
  HASTINGS. 'Tis Gaultree Forest, an't shall please your Grace.
  ARCHBISHOP. Here stand, my lords, and send discoverers forth
    To know the numbers of our enemies.
  HASTINGS. We have sent forth already.
  ARCHBISHOP. 'Tis well done.
    My friends and brethren in these great affairs,
    I must acquaint you that I have receiv'd
    New-dated letters from Northumberland;
    Their cold intent, tenour, and substance, thus:
    Here doth he wish his person, with such powers
    As might hold sortance with his quality,
    The which he could not levy; whereupon
    He is retir'd, to ripe his growing fortunes,
    To Scotland; and concludes in hearty prayers
    That your attempts may overlive the hazard
    And fearful meeting of their opposite.
  MOWBRAY. Thus do the hopes we have in him touch ground
    And dash themselves to pieces.

                          Enter A MESSENGER

  HASTINGS. Now, what news?
  MESSENGER. West of this forest, scarcely off a mile,
    In goodly form comes on the enemy;
    And, by the ground they hide, I judge their number
    Upon or near the rate of thirty thousand.
  MOWBRAY. The just proportion that we gave them out.
    Let us sway on and face them in the field.

                        Enter WESTMORELAND

  ARCHBISHOP. What well-appointed leader fronts us here?
  MOWBRAY. I think it is my Lord of Westmoreland.
  WESTMORELAND. Health and fair greeting from our general,
    The Prince, Lord John and Duke of Lancaster.
  ARCHBISHOP. Say on, my Lord of Westmoreland, in peace,
    What doth concern your coming.
  WESTMORELAND. Then, my lord,
    Unto your Grace do I in chief address
    The substance of my speech. If that rebellion
    Came like itself, in base and abject routs,
    Led on by bloody youth, guarded with rags,
    And countenanc'd by boys and beggary-
    I say, if damn'd commotion so appear'd
    In his true, native, and most proper shape,
    You, reverend father, and these noble lords,
    Had not been here to dress the ugly form
    Of base and bloody insurrection
    With your fair honours. You, Lord Archbishop,
    Whose see is by a civil peace maintain'd,
    Whose beard the silver hand of peace hath touch'd,
    Whose learning and good letters peace hath tutor'd,
    Whose white investments figure innocence,
    The dove, and very blessed spirit of peace-
    Wherefore you do so ill translate yourself
    Out of the speech of peace, that bears such grace,
    Into the harsh and boist'rous tongue of war;
    Turning your books to graves, your ink to blood,
    Your pens to lances, and your tongue divine
    To a loud trumpet and a point of war?
  ARCHBISHOP. Wherefore do I this? So the question stands.
    Briefly to this end: we are all diseas'd
    And with our surfeiting and wanton hours
    Have brought ourselves into a burning fever,
    And we must bleed for it; of which disease
    Our late King, Richard, being infected, died.
    But, my most noble Lord of Westmoreland,
    I take not on me here as a physician;
    Nor do I as an enemy to peace
    Troop in the throngs of military men;
    But rather show awhile like fearful war
    To diet rank minds sick of happiness,
    And purge th' obstructions which begin to stop
    Our very veins of life. Hear me more plainly.
    I have in equal balance justly weigh'd
    What wrongs our arms may do, what wrongs we suffer,
    And find our griefs heavier than our offences.
    We see which way the stream of time doth run
    And are enforc'd from our most quiet there
    By the rough torrent of occasion;
    And have the summary of all our griefs,
    When time shall serve, to show in articles;
    Which long ere this we offer'd to the King,
    And might by no suit gain our audience:
    When we are wrong'd, and would unfold our griefs,
    We are denied access unto his person,
    Even by those men that most have done us wrong.
    The dangers of the days but newly gone,
    Whose memory is written on the earth
    With yet appearing blood, and the examples
    Of every minute's instance, present now,
    Hath put us in these ill-beseeming arms;
    Not to break peace, or any branch of it,
    But to establish here a peace indeed,
    Concurring both in name and quality.
  WESTMORELAND. When ever yet was your appeal denied;
    Wherein have you been galled by the King;
    What peer hath been suborn'd to grate on you
    That you should seal this lawless bloody book
    Of forg'd rebellion with a seal divine,
    And consecrate commotion's bitter edge?
  ARCHBISHOP. My brother general, the commonwealth,
    To brother horn an household cruelty,
    I make my quarrel in particular.
  WESTMORELAND. There is no need of any such redress;
    Or if there were, it not belongs to you.
  MOWBRAY. Why not to him in part, and to us all
    That feel the bruises of the days before,
    And suffer the condition of these times
    To lay a heavy and unequal hand
    Upon our honours?
  WESTMORELAND. O my good Lord Mowbray,
    Construe the times to their necessities,
    And you shall say, indeed, it is the time,
    And not the King, that doth you injuries.
    Yet, for your part, it not appears to me,
    Either from the King or in the present time,
    That you should have an inch of any ground
    To build a grief on. Were you not restor'd
    To all the Duke of Norfolk's signiories,
    Your noble and right well-rememb'red father's?
  MOWBRAY. What thing, in honour, had my father lost
    That need to be reviv'd and breath'd in me?
    The King that lov'd him, as the state stood then,
    Was force perforce compell'd to banish him,
    And then that Henry Bolingbroke and he,
    Being mounted and both roused in their seats,
    Their neighing coursers daring of the spur,
    Their armed staves in charge, their beavers down,
    Their eyes of fire sparkling through sights of steel,
    And the loud trumpet blowing them together-
    Then, then, when there was nothing could have stay'd
    My father from the breast of Bolingbroke,
    O, when the King did throw his warder down-
    His own life hung upon the staff he threw-
    Then threw he down himself, and all their lives
    That by indictment and by dint of sword
    Have since miscarried under Bolingbroke.
  WESTMORELAND. You speak, Lord Mowbray, now you know not what.
    The Earl of Hereford was reputed then
    In England the most valiant gentleman.
    Who knows on whom fortune would then have smil'd?
    But if your father had been victor there,
    He ne'er had borne it out of Coventry;
    For all the country, in a general voice,
    Cried hate upon him; and all their prayers and love
    Were set on Hereford, whom they doted on,
    And bless'd and grac'd indeed more than the King.
    But this is mere digression from my purpose.
    Here come I from our princely general
    To know your griefs; to tell you from his Grace
    That he will give you audience; and wherein
    It shall appear that your demands are just,
    You shall enjoy them, everything set off
    That might so much as think you enemies.
  MOWBRAY. But he hath forc'd us to compel this offer;
    And it proceeds from policy, not love.
  WESTMORELAND. Mowbray. you overween to take it so.
    This offer comes from mercy, not from fear;
    For, lo! within a ken our army lies-
    Upon mine honour, all too confident
    To give admittance to a thought of fear.
    Our battle is more full of names than yours,
    Our men more perfect in the use of arms,
    Our armour all as strong, our cause the best;
    Then reason will our hearts should be as good.
    Say you not, then, our offer is compell'd.
  MOWBRAY. Well, by my will we shall admit no parley.
  WESTMORELAND. That argues but the shame of your offence:
    A rotten case abides no handling.
  HASTINGS. Hath the Prince John a full commission,
    In very ample virtue of his father,
    To hear and absolutely to determine
    Of what conditions we shall stand upon?
  WESTMORELAND. That is intended in the general's name.
    I muse you make so slight a question.
  ARCHBISHOP. Then take, my Lord of Westmoreland, this schedule,
    For this contains our general grievances.
    Each several article herein redress'd,
    All members of our cause, both here and hence,
    That are insinewed to this action,
    Acquitted by a true substantial form,
    And present execution of our wills
    To us and to our purposes confin'd-
    We come within our awful banks again,
    And knit our powers to the arm of peace.
  WESTMORELAND. This will I show the general. Please you, lords,
    In sight of both our battles we may meet;
    And either end in peace- which God so frame!-
    Or to the place of diff'rence call the swords
    Which must decide it.
  ARCHBISHOP. My lord, we will do so.          Exit WESTMORELAND
  MOWBRAY. There is a thing within my bosom tells me
    That no conditions of our peace can stand.
  HASTINGS. Fear you not that: if we can make our peace
    Upon such large terms and so absolute
    As our conditions shall consist upon,
    Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains.
  MOWBRAY. Yea, but our valuation shall be such
    That every slight and false-derived cause,
    Yea, every idle, nice, and wanton reason,
    Shall to the King taste of this action;
    That, were our royal faiths martyrs in love,
    We shall be winnow'd with so rough a wind
    That even our corn shall seem as light as chaff,
    And good from bad find no partition.
  ARCHBISHOP. No, no, my lord. Note this: the King is weary
    Of dainty and such picking grievances;
    For he hath found to end one doubt by death
    Revives two greater in the heirs of life;
    And therefore will he wipe his tables clean,
    And keep no tell-tale to his memory
    That may repeat and history his los
    To new remembrance. For full well he knows
    He cannot so precisely weed this land
    As his misdoubts present occasion:
    His foes are so enrooted with his friends
    That, plucking to unfix an enemy,
    He doth unfasten so and shake a friend.
    So that this land, like an offensive wife
    That hath enrag'd him on to offer strokes,
    As he is striking, holds his infant up,
    And hangs resolv'd correction in the arm
    That was uprear'd to execution.
  HASTINGS. Besides, the King hath wasted all his rods
    On late offenders, that he now doth lack
    The very instruments of chastisement;
    So that his power, like to a fangless lion,
    May offer, but not hold.
  ARCHBISHOP. 'Tis very true;
    And therefore be assur'd, my good Lord Marshal,
    If we do now make our atonement well,
    Our peace will, like a broken limb united,
    Grow stronger for the breaking.
  MOWBRAY. Be it so.
    Here is return'd my Lord of Westmoreland.

                       Re-enter WESTMORELAND

  WESTMORELAND. The Prince is here at hand. Pleaseth your lordship
    To meet his Grace just distance 'tween our armies?
  MOWBRAY. Your Grace of York, in God's name then, set forward.
  ARCHBISHOP. Before, and greet his Grace. My lord, we come.
                                                          Exeunt




SCENE II.
Another part of the forest

Enter, from one side, MOWBRAY, attended; afterwards, the ARCHBISHOP,
HASTINGS, and others; from the other side, PRINCE JOHN of LANCASTER,
WESTMORELAND, OFFICERS, and others

  PRINCE JOHN. You are well encount'red here, my cousin Mowbray.
    Good day to you, gentle Lord Archbishop;
    And so to you, Lord Hastings, and to all.
    My Lord of York, it better show'd with you
    When that your flock, assembled by the bell,
    Encircled you to hear with reverence
    Your exposition on the holy text
    Than now to see you here an iron man,
    Cheering a rout of rebels with your drum,
    Turning the word to sword, and life to death.
    That man that sits within a monarch's heart
    And ripens in the sunshine of his favour,
    Would he abuse the countenance of the king,
    Alack, what mischiefs might he set abroach
    In shadow of such greatness! With you, Lord Bishop,
    It is even so. Who hath not heard it spoken
    How deep you were within the books of God?
    To us the speaker in His parliament,
    To us th' imagin'd voice of God himself,
    The very opener and intelligencer
    Between the grace, the sanctities of heaven,
    And our dull workings. O, who shall believe
    But you misuse the reverence of your place,
    Employ the countenance and grace of heav'n
    As a false favourite doth his prince's name,
    In deeds dishonourable? You have ta'en up,
    Under the counterfeited zeal of God,
    The subjects of His substitute, my father,
    And both against the peace of heaven and him
    Have here up-swarm'd them.
  ARCHBISHOP. Good my Lord of Lancaster,
    I am not here against your father's peace;
    But, as I told my Lord of Westmoreland,
    The time misord'red doth, in common sense,
    Crowd us and crush us to this monstrous form
    To hold our safety up. I sent your Grace
    The parcels and particulars of our grief,
    The which hath been with scorn shov'd from the court,
    Whereon this hydra son of war is born;
    Whose dangerous eyes may well be charm'd asleep
    With grant of our most just and right desires;
    And true obedience, of this madness cur'd,
    Stoop tamely to the foot of majesty.
  MOWBRAY. If not, we ready are to try our fortunes
    To the last man.
  HASTINGS. And though we here fall down,
    We have supplies to second our attempt.
    If they miscarry, theirs shall second them;
    And so success of mischief shall be born,
    And heir from heir shall hold this quarrel up
    Whiles England shall have generation.
  PRINCE JOHN. YOU are too shallow, Hastings, much to shallow,
    To sound the bottom of the after-times.
  WESTMORELAND. Pleaseth your Grace to answer them directly
    How far forth you do like their articles.
  PRINCE JOHN. I like them all and do allow them well;
    And swear here, by the honour of my blood,
    My father's purposes have been mistook;
    And some about him have too lavishly
    Wrested his meaning and authority.
    My lord, these griefs shall be with speed redress'd;
    Upon my soul, they shall. If this may please you,
    Discharge your powers unto their several counties,
    As we will ours; and here, between the armies,
    Let's drink together friendly and embrace,
    That all their eyes may bear those tokens home
    Of our restored love and amity.
  ARCHBISHOP. I take your princely word for these redresses.
  PRINCE JOHN. I give it you, and will maintain my word;
    And thereupon I drink unto your Grace.
  HASTINGS. Go, Captain, and deliver to the army
    This news of peace. Let them have pay, and part.
    I know it will please them. Hie thee, Captain.
                                                    Exit Officer
  ARCHBISHOP. To you, my noble Lord of Westmoreland.
  WESTMORELAND. I pledge your Grace; and if you knew what pains
    I have bestow'd to breed this present peace,
    You would drink freely; but my love to ye
    Shall show itself more openly hereafter.
  ARCHBISHOP. I do not doubt you.
  WESTMORELAND. I am glad of it.
    Health to my lord and gentle cousin, Mowbray.
  MOWBRAY. You wish me health in very happy season,
    For I am on the sudden something ill.
  ARCHBISHOP. Against ill chances men are ever merry;
    But heaviness foreruns the good event.
  WESTMORELAND. Therefore be merry, coz; since sudden sorrow
    Serves to say thus, 'Some good thing comes to-morrow.'
  ARCHBISHOP. Believe me, I am passing light in spirit.
  MOWBRAY. So much the worse, if your own rule be true.
                                                 [Shouts within]
  PRINCE JOHN. The word of peace is rend'red. Hark, how they shout!
  MOWBRAY. This had been cheerful after victory.
  ARCHBISHOP. A peace is of the nature of a conquest;
    For then both parties nobly are subdu'd,
    And neither party loser.
  PRINCE JOHN. Go, my lord,
    And let our army be discharged too.
                                               Exit WESTMORELAND
    And, good my lord, so please you let our trains
    March by us, that we may peruse the men
    We should have cop'd withal.
  ARCHBISHOP. Go, good Lord Hastings,
    And, ere they be dismiss'd, let them march by.
                                                   Exit HASTINGS
  PRINCE JOHN. I trust, lords, we shall lie to-night together.

                      Re-enter WESTMORELAND

    Now, cousin, wherefore stands our army still?
  WESTMORELAND. The leaders, having charge from you to stand,
    Will not go off until they hear you speak.
  PRINCE JOHN. They know their duties.

                        Re-enter HASTINGS

  HASTINGS. My lord, our army is dispers'd already.
    Like youthful steers unyok'd, they take their courses
    East, west, north, south; or like a school broke up,
    Each hurries toward his home and sporting-place.
  WESTMORELAND. Good tidings, my Lord Hastings; for the which
    I do arrest thee, traitor, of high treason;
    And you, Lord Archbishop, and you, Lord Mowbray,
    Of capital treason I attach you both.
  MOWBRAY. Is this proceeding just and honourable?
  WESTMORELAND. Is your assembly so?
  ARCHBISHOP. Will you thus break your faith?
  PRINCE JOHN. I pawn'd thee none:
    I promis'd you redress of these same grievances
    Whereof you did complain; which, by mine honour,
    I will perform with a most Christian care.
    But for you, rebels- look to taste the due
    Meet for rebellion and such acts as yours.
    Most shallowly did you these arms commence,
    Fondly brought here, and foolishly sent hence.
    Strike up our drums, pursue the scatt'red stray.
    God, and not we, hath safely fought to-day.
    Some guard these traitors to the block of death,
    Treason's true bed and yielder-up of breath.          Exeunt




SCENE III.
Another part of the forest

Alarum; excursions. Enter FALSTAFF and COLVILLE, meeting

  FALSTAFF. What's your name, sir? Of what condition are you, and of
    what place, I pray?
  COLVILLE. I am a knight sir; and my name is Colville of the Dale.
  FALSTAFF. Well then, Colville is your name, a knight is your
    degree, and your place the Dale. Colville shall still be your
    name, a traitor your degree, and the dungeon your place- a place
    deep enough; so shall you be still Colville of the Dale.
  COLVILLE. Are not you Sir John Falstaff?
  FALSTAFF. As good a man as he, sir, whoe'er I am. Do you yield,
    sir, or shall I sweat for you? If I do sweat, they are the drops
    of thy lovers, and they weep for thy death; therefore rouse up
    fear and trembling, and do observance to my mercy.
  COLVILLE. I think you are Sir John Falstaff, and in that thought
    yield me.
  FALSTAFF. I have a whole school of tongues in this belly of mine;
    and not a tongue of them all speaks any other word but my name.
    An I had but a belly of any indifferency, I were simply the most
    active fellow in Europe. My womb, my womb, my womb undoes me.
    Here comes our general.

            Enter PRINCE JOHN OF LANCASTER, WESTMORELAND,
                            BLUNT, and others

  PRINCE JOHN. The heat is past; follow no further now.
    Call in the powers, good cousin Westmoreland.
                                               Exit WESTMORELAND
    Now, Falstaff, where have you been all this while?
    When everything is ended, then you come.
    These tardy tricks of yours will, on my life,
    One time or other break some gallows' back.
  FALSTAFF. I would be sorry, my lord, but it should be thus: I never
    knew yet but rebuke and check was the reward of valour. Do you
    think me a swallow, an arrow, or a bullet? Have I, in my poor and
    old motion, the expedition of thought? I have speeded hither with
    the very extremest inch of possibility; I have found'red nine
    score and odd posts; and here, travel tainted as I am, have, in
    my pure and immaculate valour, taken Sir John Colville of the
    Dale,a most furious knight and valorous enemy. But what of that?
    He saw me, and yielded; that I may justly say with the hook-nos'd
    fellow of Rome-I came, saw, and overcame.
  PRINCE JOHN. It was more of his courtesy than your deserving.
  FALSTAFF. I know not. Here he is, and here I yield him; and I
    beseech your Grace, let it be book'd with the rest of this day's
    deeds; or, by the Lord, I will have it in a particular ballad
    else, with mine own picture on the top on't, Colville kissing my
    foot; to the which course if I be enforc'd, if you do not all
    show like gilt twopences to me, and I, in the clear sky of fame,
    o'ershine you as much as the full moon doth the cinders of the
    element, which show like pins' heads to her, believe not the word
    of the noble. Therefore let me have right, and let desert mount.
  PRINCE JOHN. Thine's too heavy to mount.
  FALSTAFF. Let it shine, then.
  PRINCE JOHN. Thine's too thick to shine.
  FALSTAFF. Let it do something, my good lord, that may do me good,
    and call it what you will.
  PRINCE JOHN. Is thy name Colville?
  COLVILLE. It is, my lord.
  PRINCE JOHN. A famous rebel art thou, Colville.
  FALSTAFF. And a famous true subject took him.
  COLVILLE. I am, my lord, but as my betters are
    That led me hither. Had they been rul'd by me,
    You should have won them dearer than you have.
  FALSTAFF. I know not how they sold themselves; but thou, like a
    kind fellow, gavest thyself away gratis; and I thank thee for
    thee.

                       Re-enter WESTMORELAND

  PRINCE JOHN. Now, have you left pursuit?
  WESTMORELAND. Retreat is made, and execution stay'd.
  PRINCE JOHN. Send Colville, with his confederates,
    To York, to present execution.
    Blunt, lead him hence; and see you guard him sure.
                                         Exeunt BLUNT and others
    And now dispatch we toward the court, my lords.
    I hear the King my father is sore sick.
    Our news shall go before us to his Majesty,
    Which, cousin, you shall bear to comfort him
    And we with sober speed will follow you.
  FALSTAFF. My lord, I beseech you, give me leave to go through
    Gloucestershire; and, when you come to court, stand my good lord,
    pray, in your good report.
  PRINCE JOHN. Fare you well, Falstaff. I, in my condition,
    Shall better speak of you than you deserve.
                                         Exeunt all but FALSTAFF
  FALSTAFF. I would you had but the wit; 'twere better than your
    dukedom. Good faith, this same young sober-blooded boy doth not
    love me; nor a man cannot make him laugh- but that's no marvel;
    he drinks no wine. There's never none of these demure boys come
    to any proof; for thin drink doth so over-cool their blood, and
    making many fish-meals, that they fall into a kind of male
    green-sickness; and then, when they marry, they get wenches. They
    are generally fools and cowards-which some of us should be too,
    but for inflammation. A good sherris-sack hath a two-fold
    operation in it. It ascends me into the brain; dries me there all
    the foolish and dull and crudy vapours which environ it; makes it
    apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, and
    delectable shapes; which delivered o'er to the voice, the tongue,
    which is the birth, becomes excellent wit. The second property of
    your excellent sherris is the warming of the blood; which before,
    cold and settled, left the liver white and pale, which is the
    badge of pusillanimity and cowardice; but the sherris warms it,
    and makes it course from the inwards to the parts extremes. It
    illumineth the face, which, as a beacon, gives warning to all the
    rest of this little kingdom, man, to arm; and then the vital
    commoners and inland petty spirits muster me all to their
    captain, the heart, who, great and puff'd up with this retinue,
    doth any deed of courage- and this valour comes of sherris. So
    that skill in the weapon is nothing without sack, for that sets
    it a-work; and learning, a mere hoard of gold kept by a devil
    till sack commences it and sets it in act and use. Hereof comes
    it that Prince Harry is valiant; for the cold blood he did
    naturally inherit of his father, he hath, like lean, sterile, and
    bare land, manured, husbanded, and till'd, with excellent
    endeavour of drinking good and good store of fertile sherris,
    that he is become very hot and valiant. If I had a thousand sons,
    the first humane principle I would teach them should be to
    forswear thin potations and to addict themselves to sack.

                           Enter BARDOLPH

    How now, Bardolph!
  BARDOLPH. The army is discharged all and gone.
  FALSTAFF. Let them go. I'll through Gloucestershire, and there will
    I visit Master Robert Shallow, Esquire. I have him already
    temp'ring between my finger and my thumb, and shortly will I seal
    with him. Come away.                                  Exeunt




SCENE IV.
Westminster. The Jerusalem Chamber

Enter the KING, PRINCE THOMAS OF CLARENCE, PRINCE HUMPHREY OF GLOUCESTER,
WARWICK, and others

  KING. Now, lords, if God doth give successful end
    To this debate that bleedeth at our doors,
    We will our youth lead on to higher fields,
    And draw no swords but what are sanctified.
    Our navy is address'd, our power connected,
    Our substitutes in absence well invested,
    And everything lies level to our wish.
    Only we want a little personal strength;
    And pause us till these rebels, now afoot,
    Come underneath the yoke of government.
  WARWICK. Both which we doubt not but your Majesty
    Shall soon enjoy.
  KING. Humphrey, my son of Gloucester,
    Where is the Prince your brother?
  PRINCE HUMPHREY. I think he's gone to hunt, my lord, at Windsor.
  KING. And how accompanied?
  PRINCE HUMPHREY. I do not know, my lord.
  KING. Is not his brother, Thomas of Clarence, with him?
  PRINCE HUMPHREY. No, my good lord, he is in presence here.
  CLARENCE. What would my lord and father?
  KING. Nothing but well to thee, Thomas of Clarence.
    How chance thou art not with the Prince thy brother?
    He loves thee, and thou dost neglect him, Thomas.
    Thou hast a better place in his affection
    Than all thy brothers; cherish it, my boy,
    And noble offices thou mayst effect
    Of mediation, after I am dead,
    Between his greatness and thy other brethren.
    Therefore omit him not; blunt not his love,
    Nor lose the good advantage of his grace
    By seeming cold or careless of his will;
    For he is gracious if he be observ'd.
    He hath a tear for pity and a hand
    Open as day for melting charity;
    Yet notwithstanding, being incens'd, he is flint;
    As humorous as winter, and as sudden
    As flaws congealed in the spring of day.
    His temper, therefore, must be well observ'd.
    Chide him for faults, and do it reverently,
    When you perceive his blood inclin'd to mirth;
    But, being moody, give him line and scope
    Till that his passions, like a whale on ground,
    Confound themselves with working. Learn this, Thomas,
    And thou shalt prove a shelter to thy friends,
    A hoop of gold to bind thy brothers in,
    That the united vessel of their blood,
    Mingled with venom of suggestion-
    As, force perforce, the age will pour it in-
    Shall never leak, though it do work as strong
    As aconitum or rash gunpowder.
  CLARENCE. I shall observe him with all care and love.
  KING. Why art thou not at Windsor with him, Thomas?
  CLARENCE. He is not there to-day; he dines in London.
  KING. And how accompanied? Canst thou tell that?
  CLARENCE. With Poins, and other his continual followers.
  KING. Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds;
    And he, the noble image of my youth,
    Is overspread with them; therefore my grief
    Stretches itself beyond the hour of death.
    The blood weeps from my heart when I do shape,
    In forms imaginary, th'unguided days
    And rotten times that you shall look upon
    When I am sleeping with my ancestors.
    For when his headstrong riot hath no curb,
    When rage and hot blood are his counsellors
    When means and lavish manners meet together,
    O, with what wings shall his affections fly
    Towards fronting peril and oppos'd decay!
  WARWICK. My gracious lord, you look beyond him quite.
    The Prince but studies his companions
    Like a strange tongue, wherein, to gain the language,
    'Tis needful that the most immodest word
    Be look'd upon and learnt; which once attain'd,
    Your Highness knows, comes to no further use
    But to be known and hated. So, like gross terms,
    The Prince will, in the perfectness of time,
    Cast off his followers; and their memory
    Shall as a pattern or a measure live
    By which his Grace must mete the lives of other,
    Turning past evils to advantages.
  KING. 'Tis seldom when the bee doth leave her comb
    In the dead carrion.

                      Enter WESTMORELAND

    Who's here? Westmoreland?
  WESTMORELAND. Health to my sovereign, and new happiness
    Added to that that am to deliver!
    Prince John, your son, doth kiss your Grace's hand.
    Mowbray, the Bishop Scroop, Hastings, and all,
    Are brought to the correction of your law.
    There is not now a rebel's sword unsheath'd,
    But Peace puts forth her olive everywhere.
    The manner how this action hath been borne
    Here at more leisure may your Highness read,
    With every course in his particular.
  KING. O Westmoreland, thou art a summer bird,
    Which ever in the haunch of winter sings
    The lifting up of day.