Prin. Sirra, Falstaffe and the rest of the Theeues, are at
the doore, shall we be merry?
Poin. As merrie as Crickets my Lad. But harke yee,
What cunning match haue you made this iest of the
Drawer? Come, what's the issue?
Prin. I am now of all humors, that haue shewed themselues
humors, since the old dayes of goodman Adam, to
the pupill age of this present twelue a clock at midnight.
What's a clocke Francis?
Fran. Anon, anon sir
Prin. That euer this Fellow should haue fewer words
then a Parret, and yet the sonne of a Woman. His industry
is vp-staires and down-staires, his eloquence the parcell
of a reckoning. I am not yet of Percies mind, the Hotspurre
of the North, he that killes me some sixe or seauen
dozen of Scots at a Breakfast, washes his hands, and saies
to his wife; Fie vpon this quiet life, I want worke. O my
sweet Harry sayes she, how many hast thou kill'd to day?
Giue my Roane horse a drench (sayes hee) and answeres,
some fourteene, an houre after: a trifle, a trifle. I prethee
call in Falstaffe, Ile play Percy, and that damn'd Brawne
shall play Dame Mortimer his wife. Riuo, sayes the drunkard.
Call in Ribs, call in Tallow.
Enter Falstaffe.
Poin. Welcome Iacke, where hast thou beene?
Fal. A plague of all Cowards I say, and a Vengeance
too, marry and Amen. Giue me a cup of Sacke Boy. Ere
I leade this life long, Ile sowe nether stockes, and mend
them too. A plague of all cowards. Giue me a Cup of
Sacke, Rogue. Is there no Vertue extant?
Prin. Didst thou neuer see Titan kisse a dish of Butter,
pittifull hearted Titan that melted at the sweete Tale of
the Sunne? If thou didst, then behold that compound
Fal. You Rogue, heere's Lime in this Sacke too: there
is nothing but Roguery to be found in Villanous man; yet
a Coward is worse then a Cup of Sack with lime. A villanous
Coward, go thy wayes old Iacke, die when thou
wilt, if manhood, good manhood be not forgot vpon the
face of the earth, then am I a shotten Herring: there liues
not three good men vnhang'd in England, & one of them
is fat, and growes old, God helpe the while, a bad world I
say. I would I were a Weauer, I could sing all manner of
songs. A plague of all Cowards, I say still
Prin. How now Woolsacke, what mutter you?
Fal. A Kings Sonne? If I do not beate thee out of thy
Kingdome with a dagger of Lath, and driue all thy Subiects
afore thee like a flocke of Wilde-geese, Ile neuer
weare haire on my face more. You Prince of Wales?
Prin. Why you horson round man? what's the matter?
Fal. Are you not a Coward? Answer me to that, and
Poines there?
Prin. Ye fat paunch, and yee call mee Coward, Ile
stab thee
Fal. I call thee Coward? Ile see thee damn'd ere I call
the Coward: but I would giue a thousand pound I could
run as fast as thou canst. You are straight enough in the
shoulders, you care not who sees your backe: Call you
that backing of your friends? a plague vpon such backing:
giue me them that will face me. Giue me a Cup
of Sack, I am a Rogue if I drunke to day
Prin. O Villaine, thy Lippes are scarce wip'd, since
thou drunk'st last
Falst. All's one for that.
He drinkes.