burns, poor soul.

For the other, I owe her money; and whether she be damned for that, I know not.

Hostess. No, I warrant you.

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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 victuallers do so; what's a joint of mutton or two in a whole Lent?

Prince. You, gentlewoman,

Doll. What says your grace?

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Falstaff. His grace says that which his flesh rebels against.

[Knocking within. Hostess. Who knocks so loud at door?-Look to the 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.

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[Exeunt Prince Henry, Poins, Peto, and Bardolph. Falstaff. Now comes in the sweetest morsel of the night, and we must hence and leave it unpicked.—[Knocking within.] More knocking at the door!—

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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 undeserved may sleep, when the man of action is called on. Farewell, good wenches; if I be not sent away post, I will see you again ere I go.

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

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[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 Doll: come. [She comes blubbered.] Yea, will you come, Doll?

[Exeunt.

SCENE I.

ACT III.

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 thousand of my poorest subjects

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

And steep my senses in forgetfulness?

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

And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber,

Under the canopies of costly state,

And lull'd with sound of sweetest melody?

ΤΟ

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

Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast

Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious surge
And in the visitation of the winds,

Who take the ruffian billows by the top,

Curling their monstrous heads and hanging them
With deafening 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 distemper'd,
Which to his former strength may be restor❜d
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,

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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-
You, cousin Nevil, as I may remember-[To Warwick.]
When Richard, with his eye brimful 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 nature of the times deceas'd;
The which observ'd, a man may prophesy,

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