Falst. Tut, tut, good enough to tosse: foode for Powder,
foode for Powder: they'le fill a Pit, as well as better:
tush man, mortall men, mortall men
Westm. I, but Sir Iohn, me thinkes they are exceeding
poore and bare, too beggarly
Falst. Faith, for their pouertie, I know not where they
had that; and for their barenesse, I am sure they neuer
learn'd that of me
Prince. No, Ile be sworne, vnlesse you call three fingers
on the Ribbes bare. But sirra, make haste, Percy is already
in the field
Falst. What, is the King encamp'd?
Westm. Hee is, Sir Iohn, I feare wee shall stay too
long
Falst. Well, to the latter end of a Fray, and the beginning
of a Feast, fits a dull fighter, and a keene Guest.
Exeunt.
Scoena Tertia.
Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Dowglas, and Vernon.