: How now? what's the matter? BARD. You must away to court, fir, presently; a dozen captains stay at door for you. FAL. Pay the musicians, firrah. [To the Page.]_Farewell, hoftefs;——farewell, Doll.-You fee, my good wenches, how men of merit are fought after: the undeferver may fleep, when the man of action is call'd on. Farewell, good wenches:If I be not fent away post, I will fee you again, ere I go. DOL. I cannot speak;-If my heart be not ready to burst :-Well, sweet Jack, have a care of thyself. FAL, Farewell, farewell. [Exeunt FALSTAFF and BARDOLPH. HOST. Well, fare thee well: I have known thee these twenty-nine years, come peafcod-time; but an honester, and truer-hearted man,-Well, fare thee well. BARD. [Within.] Mistress Tear-fheet, HOST. What's the matter? BARD. Bid mistress Tear-fheet come to my master. HOST. O run, Doll, run; run, good Doll. ACT III. SCENE I. A Room in the Palace. [Exeunt. Enter King HENRY in his nightgown, with a Page. K. HEN. Go, call the earls of Surrey and of Warwick ; But, ere they come, bid them o'er-read thefe letters, And well confider of them: Make good speed. How many thousand of Exit Page. That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, And steep my fenfes in forgetfulness ? Why rather, fleep, lieft thou in fmoky cribs, And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy flumber; Under the canopies of coftly ftate, And lull'd with founds of fweetest melody? O thou dull god, why lieft thou with the vile, Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast And in the vifitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian billows by the top, Curling their monftrous heads, and hanging them Enter WARWICK and SURREY, WAR. Many good morrows to your majesty! WAR. 'Tis one o'clock, and past. K. HEN. Why then, good morrow to you all, my lords. Have you read o'er the letters that I fent you WAR. We have, my liege. K. HEN. 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. [fate; K. HEN. O heaven! that one might read the book of And fee the revolution of the times Make mountains level, and the continent Into the fea! and, other times, to fee Too wide for Neptune's hips; how chances mock, With divers liquors! O, if this were feen, The happiest youth,-viewing his progress through, 'Tis not ten years gone, Since Richard, and Northumberland, great friends, Then check'd and rated by Northumberland,— My coufin Bolingbroke afcends my throne Though then, heaven knows, I had no fuch intent; But that neceffity fo bow'd the state, WAR. There is a history in all men's lives, Such things become the hatch and brood of time; King Richard might create a perfect guess, K. HEN. Are these things then neceffities? WAR. It cannot be, my lord; Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo, To comfort you the more, I have receiv'd A certain instance, that Glendower is dead. Your majefty hath been this fortnight ill; And these unfeafon'd hours, perforce, must add your K. HEN. I will take your counsel : And, were these inward wars once out of hand, [Exeunt. SCENE II. Court before Justice SHALLOW's House in Glocefterfhire. Enter SHALLOW and SILENCE, meeting; MOULDY, SHADOW, WART, FEEBLE, BULLCALF, and Servants, behind. SHAL. Come on, come on, come on; give me your hand, fir, give me your hand, fir: an early stirrer, by the rood. And how doth my good coufin Silence? SIL. Good morrow, good coufin Shallow. SHAL. And how doth my coufin, your bedfellow? and your fairest daughter, and mine, my god-daughter Ellen? SIL. Alas, a black ouzel, coufin Shallow. SHAL. By yea and nay, fir, I dare fay, my cousin William is become a good fcholar: He is at Oxford, ftill, is he not? SIL. Indeed, fir; to my coft. SHAL. He must then to the inns of court fhortly: I was once of Clement's inn; where, I think, they will talk of mad Shallow yet. SIL. You were call'd-lufty Shallow, then, cousin. SHAL. By the mafs, I was call'd any thing; and I would have done any thing, indeed, and roundly too. There was I, and little John Doit of Staffordshire, and black George Bare, and Francis Pickbone, and Will Squele a Cotswold man,-you had not four fuch swinge-bucklers in all the inns of court again: and, I may fay to you, |