ACT III.

K. Henry.

Letters,

SCENE I.

Enter King Henry with a Page.

But e'er they come, bid them o'er-read thef

O, call the Earls of Surrey, and Warwick:

And well confider of them: make good fpeed. [Exit Page.
How many thousands of my poorest Subjects
Are at this hour afleep! O Sleep, O gentle Sleep,
Nature's foft Nurfe, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my Eyelids down,
And fteep my Senfes in Forgetfulness?

Why rather, Sleep, lyeft thou in finoaky Cribs,
Upon uneafie Pallads ftretching thee,

And husht with buzzing Night, fly'ft to thy flumber,
Than in the perfum'd Chambers of the Great,
Under the Canopies of coftly State,

And lull'd with founds of fweetest Melody?
O thou dull God, why ly'ft thou with the vile,
In loathfom Beds, and leav'ft the Kingly Couch
A watch-cafe, or a common Larum-Bell?
Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy Maft,
Seal up the Ship-boy's Eyes, and rock his Brains,
In Cradle of the rude imperious Surge,
And in the vifitation of the Winds,

Who take the Ruffian Billows by the top,
Curling their monftrous heads, and hanging them.
With deaf'ning Clamours in the flip'ry Clouds,
That with the hurley, Death it felf awakes?
Canft thou, O partial Sleep, give thy Repose
To the wet Sea-boy in an hour fo rude?
And in the calmeft, and most stilleft Night,
With all appliances and means to boot,

Deny it to a King? Then happy Low, lye down,
Uneafie lyes the Head, that wears a Crown.

Enter Warwick and Surrey.

War. Many good morrows to your Majefty,
K. Henry. Is it good-morrow, Lords?

War. 'Tis one a Clock, and paft.

K. Henry.

K. Henry. 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. Henry. Then you perceive the Body of our Kingdom, How foul it is; what rank Difeafes grow, And with what Danger, near the Heart of it. War. It is but as a Body, yet diftemper'd, Which to the former ftrength may be reftor'd, With good Advice, and little Medicine; My Lord Northumberland will foon be cool'd.

K. Henry. Oh Heav'n, that one might read the Book of Fate, And fee the Revolution of the Times

Make Mountains level, and the Continent,

Weary of folid firmnefs, melt it felf

Into the Sea; and other Times, to fee
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. 'Tis not ten years gone,
Since Richard and Northumberland, great Friends,
Did feaft together; and in two years after,
Were they at Wars. It is but eight years fince,
This Percy was the Man neareft my Soul;
Who like a Brother, toil'd in my Affairs,
And laid his Love and Life under my foot:
Yea, for my fake, even to the Eyes of Richard
Gave him defiance. But which of you was by?
You Coufin Nevil, as I may remember, [To Warwick.
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 Coufin Bullingbroke afcends my Throne :
(Though then, Heaven knows, I had no fuch intent,
But that neceffity fo bow'd the State,

That I and Greatnefs were compell'd to kiss)
The time fhall come, thus did he follow it,
The time will come, that foul Sin gathering head
Shall break into Corruption: So went on,
Fore-telling this fame Time's Condition,
And the divifion of our Amity.

War.

War. There is a Hiftory in all Mens Lives,
Figuring the nature of the Times deceas'd;
The which obferv'd, a Man may prophefie,
With a near aim, of the main Chance of things
As yet not come to Life, which in their Seeds
And weak beginnings lie entreafured.

Such things become the Hatch and Brood of Time;
And by the neceffary 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.

K. Henry. Are these things then Neceffities?
Then let us meet them like Neceffities;

And that the fame word, even now cries out on us:
They fay the Bishop and Northumberland
Are fifty thousand strong.

War. It cannot be, my Lord:

Rumour doth double, like the Voice of Eccho,
The number of the Feared. Please it your Grace
To go to bed, upon my Life, my Lord,
The Pow'rs that you already have fent forth,
Shall bring this Prize in very eafily.
To comfort you the more, I have receiv'd
A certain inftance that Glendower is dead.
Your Majefty hath been this Fort-night ill,
And these unfeafon'd Hours perforce muft add
Unto your Sickness.

K. Henry. I will take your Counsel:

And were thefe inward Wars once out of Hand,

We would, dear Lords, unto the Holy-Land. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Enter Shallow and Silence, with Mouldy, Shadow, Wart Feeble, and Bull-calf.

Shal. Come on, come on, come on; give me your Hand, Sir, give me your Hand, Sir; an early ftirrer, by the Rood. An how doth my good Coufin Silence?

Sil. Good Morrow, good Coufin Shallow.

Shal. And how doth my Coufin, your Bed-fellow? and your fairest Daughter, and mine, my God-Daughter

Ellin?

Sil. A'as, a black Ouzel, Coufin Shallow.

Shal. By yea and nay, Sir, I dare fay my Coufin Willam is become a good Scholar? He is at Oxford ftill, is he not? Sil. Indeed, Sir, 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, Coufin.

Shal. I was call'd any thing, and I would have done any thing indeed too, and roundly too. There was I, and little John Doit of Staffordshire, and black George Bare, and Francis Pickbone, and Will. Squele a Cot-fal-man; you had not four fuch Swinge-bucklers in all the Inns of Court again: And I may fay to you, we knew where the Bona-Roba's were, and had the beft of them all at Commandment. Then was Jack Falstaff, now Sir John, Boy, and a Page to Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk.

Sil. This Sir John, Coufin, that comes hither anon about

Soldiers?

Shal. The fame Sir John, the very fame: I faw him break Schoggan's Head at the Court-Gate, when he was a Crack, not thus high; and the very fame day I did fight with one Sampson Stockfish, a Fruiterer, behind Grays-Inn. Oh the Mad Days that I have spent? and to fee how many of mine old Acquaintance are dead?

Sil. We fall all follow, Coufin.

Shal. Certain, 'tis certain, very fure, very fure: Death is certain to all, all fhall Die. How a good Yoke of Bullocks at Stamford Fair?

Sil. Truly, Coufin, I was not there.

Shal. Death is certain.

living yet?

Sil. Dead, Sir.

Is Old Double of

your Town

Shal. Dead! See, fee, he drew a good Bow: And Dead? He hot a fine Shoot. John of Gaunt loved him well, and bested much Mony on his Head. Dead? He would have clapt in the Clowt at Twelve Score, and car

ried you a fore-hand Shaft at fourteen, and fourteen and a half, that it would have done a Man's Heart good to fee. How a Score of Ewes now?

Sil. Thereafter as they be: a Score of good Ewes may

be worth ten Pounds.

Shal. And is Old Double Dead?

Enter Bardolph and Page.

Sil. Here come two of Sir John Falstaff's Men, as I think.

Shal. Good Morrow, Honeft Gentlemen.

Bard. I beseech you, which is Juftice Shallow?

Shal. Im Robert Shallow, Sir, a poor Efquire of this County, one of the King's Juftices of the Peace: What is your good Pleasure with me?

Bard. My Captain, Sir, Commends him to you: My Captain, Sir John Falstaff; a tall Gentleman, and a moft gallant Leader.

Shal. He greets me well: Sir, I knew him a good BackSword Man. How doth the good Knight? May I ask, how my Lady his Wife doth ?

Bard. Sir, Pardon, a Soldier is better Accommodated, than with a Wife.

Shal. It is well faid, Sir; and it is well faid indeed, too: Better accommodated---It is good, yea indeed is it; good Phrases are furely and every where very commendable. Accommodated--it comes out of Accommode; very good, a good Phrase.

Bard. Pardon, Sir, I have heard the word. Phrafe, call you it? By this Day, I know not the Phrafe: But I will maintain the word with my Sword, to be a Soldierlike Word, and a Word of exceeding good Command. Accommodated, that is, when a Man is, as they fay, Accommodated; or, when a Man is, being whereby he thought to be Accommodated, which is an excellent thing.

Enter Falftaff.

Shal. It is very juft: Look, here comes good Sir John. Give me your Hand, give me your Worship's good Hand: Truft me, you look well, and bear your Years very well. Welcome, good Sir John.

Fal I am glad to fee you well, good Mafter Robert Shallow: Mafter Sure-card, as I think?

Shal