# Shakespeare - First Folio facsimile (1910)/The First Part of King Henry the Fourth/Act 2 Scene 4

Scena Quarta.
Enter Prince and Poines.
Prin.
Ned, prethee come out of that fat roome, & lend me thy hand to laugh a little.
Poines.
Where hast bene Hall?
Prin.
With three or foure Logger-heads, amongst 3. or fourescore Hogsheads. I haue sounded the verie base string of humility. Sirra, I am sworn brother to a leash of Drawers, and can call them by their names, as Tom, Dicke, and Francis. They take it already vpon their confidence, that though I be but Prince of Wales, yet I am the King of Curtesie: telling me flatly I am no proud Iack like Falstaffe, but a Corinthian, a lad of mettle, a good boy, and when I am King of England, I shall command al the good Laddes in East-cheape. They call drinking deepe, dying Scarlet; and when you breath in your watering, then
they cry hem, and bid you play it off. To conclude, I am so good a proficient in one quarter of an houre, that I can drinke with any Tinker in his owne Language during my life. I tell thee Ned, thou hast lost much honor, that thou wer't not with me in this action: but sweet Ned, to sweeten which name of Ned, I giue thee this peniworth of Sugar, clapt euen now into my hand by an vnder Skinker, one that neuer spake other English in his life, then Eight shillings and six pence, and, You are welcome: with this shril addition, Anon, Anon sir, Score a Pint of Bastard in the Halfe Moone, or so. But Ned, to driue away time till Falstaffe come, I prythee doe thou stand in some by-roome, while I question my puny Drawer, to what end hee gaue me the Sugar, and do neuer leaue calling Francis, that his Tale to me may be nothing but, Anon: step aside, and Ile shew thee a President.
Poines.
Francis.
Prin.
Thou art perfect.
Poin.
Francis.
Enter Drawer.
Fran.
Anon, anon sir; looke downe into the Pomgarnet, Ralfe.
Prince.
Come hither Francis.
Fran.
My Lord.
Prin.
How long hast thou to serue, Francis?
Fran.
Forsooth fiue yeares, and as much as to———
Poin.
Francis.
Fran.
Anon, anon sir.
Prin.
Fiue yeares: Berlady a long Lease for the clinking of Pewter. But Francis, darest thou be so valiant, as to play the coward with thy Indenture, & show it a faire paire of heeles, and run from it?
Fran.
O Lord sir, Ile be sworne vpon all the Books in England, I could finde in my heart.
Poin.
Francis.
Fran.
Anon, anon sir.
Prin.
How old art thou, Francis?
Fran.
Let me see, about Michaelmas next I shalbe———
Poin.
Francis.
Fran.
Anon sir, pray you stay a little, my Lord.
Prin.
Nay but harke you Francis, for the Sugar thou gauest me, 'twas a penyworth, was't not?
Fran.
O Lord sir, I would it had bene two.
Prin.
I will giue thee for it a thousand pound: Aske me when thou wilt, and thou shalt haue it.
Poin.
Fraucis.
Fran.
Anon, anon.
Prin.
Anon Francis? No Francis, but to morrow Francis: or Francis, on thursday: or indeed Francis when thou wilt. But Francis.
Fran.
My Lord.
Prin.
Wilt thou rob this Leatherne Ierkin, Christall button, Not-pated, Agat ring, Puke stocking, Caddice garter, Smooth tongue, Spanish pouch.
Fran.
O Lord sir, who do you meane?
Prin.
Why then your browne Bastard is your onely drinke: for looke you Francis, your white Canuas doublet will sulley. In Barbary sir, it cannot come to so much.
Fran.
What sir?
Poin.
Francis.
Prin.
Away you Rogue, dost thou heare them call?
Heere they both call him, the Drawer stands amazed, not knowing which way to go.
Enter Vintner.
What, stand'st thou still, and hear'st such a calling? Looke to the Guests within: My Lord, olde Sir Iohn with halfe a dozen more, are at the doore: shall I let them in?
Prin. Let them alone awhile, and then open the doore. Poines.
Enter Poines.
Poin.
Anon, anon sir.
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. A plague of all Cowards still, say I.
Prince.
What's the matter?
Falst.
What's the matter? here be foure of vs, haue ta'ne a thousand pound this Morning.
Prince.
Where is it, Iack? where is it?
Falst.
Where is it? taken from vs, it is: a hundred vpon poore foure of vs.
Prince.
What, a hundred, man?
Falst.
I am a Rogue, if I were not at halfe Sword with a dozen of them two houres together. I haue scaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the Doublet, foure through the Hose, my Buckler cut through and through, my Sword hackt like a Hand-saw, ecce signum. I neuer dealt better since I was a man: all would not doe. A plague of all Cowards: let them speake; if they speake more or lesse then truth, they are villaines, and the sonnes of darknesse.
Prince.
Speake sirs, how was it?
Gad.
We foure set vpon some dozen.
Falst.
Sixteene, at least, my Lord.
Gad.
And bound them.
Peto.
No, no, they were not bound.
Falst.
You Rogue, they were bound, euery man of them, or I am a Iew else, an Ebrew Iew.
Gad.
As we were sharing, some sixe or seuen fresh men set vpon vs.
Falst.
And vnbound the rest, and then come in the other.
Prince.
What, fought yee with them all?
Falst.
All? I know not what yee call all: but if I fought not with fiftie of them, I am a bunch of Radish: if there were not two or three and fiftie vpon poore olde Iack, then am I no two-legg'd Creature.
Poin.
Pray Heauen, you haue not murthered some of them.
Falst.
Nay, that's past praying for, I haue pepper'd two of them: Two I am sure I haue payed, two Rogues in Buckrom Sutes. I tell thee what, Hal, if I tell thee a Lye, spit in my face, call me Horse: thou knowest my olde word: here I lay, and thus I bore my point; foure Rogues in Buckrom let driue at me.
Prince.
What, foure? thou sayd'st but two, euen now.
Falst.
Foure Hal, I told thee foure.
Poin.
I, I, he said foure.
Falst.
These foure came all a-front, and mainely thrust at me; I made no more adoe, but tooke all their seuen points in my Targuet, thus.
Prince.
Seuen? why there were but foure, euen now.
Falst.
In buckrom.
Poin.
I, foure, in Buckrom Sutes.
Falst.
Seuen, by these Hilts, or I am a Villaine else.
Prin.
Prethee let him alone, we shall haue more anon.
Falst.
Doest thou heare me, Hal?
Prin.
I, and marke thee too, Iack.
Falst.
Doe so, for it is worth the listning too: these nine in Buckrom, that I told thee of.
Prin.
So, two more alreadie.
Falst.
Their Points being broken.
Poin.
Downe fell his Hose.
Falst.
Began to giue me ground: but I followed me close, came in foot and hand; and with a thought, seuen of the eleuen I pay'd.
Prin.
O monstrous! eleuen Buckrom men growne out of two?
Falst.
But as the Deuill would haue it, three mis-begotten Knaues, in Kendall Greene, came at my Back, and let driue at me; for it was so darke, Hal, that thou could'st not see thy Hand.
Prin.
These Lyes are like the Father that begets them, grosse as a Mountaine, open, palpable. Why thou Clay-brayn'd Guts, thou Knotty-pated Foole, thou Horson obscene greasie Tallow Catch.
Falst.
What, art thou mad? art thou mad? is not the truth, the truth?
Prin.
Why, how could'st thou know these men in Kendall Greene, when it was so darke, thou could'st not see thy Hand? Come, tell vs your reason: what say'st thou to this?
Poin.
Come, your reason Iack, your reason.
Falst.
What, vpon compulsion? No: were I at the Strappado, or all the Racks in the World, I would not tell you on compulsion. Giue you a reason on compulsion? If Reasons were as plentie as Black-berries, I would giue no man a Reason vpon compulsion, I.
Prin.
Ile be no longer guiltie of this sinne. This sanguine Coward, this Bed-presser, this Hors-back-breaker, this huge Hill of Flesh.
Falst.
Away you Starueling, you Elfe-skin, you dried Neats tongue, Bulles-pissell, you stocke-fish: O for breth to vtter. What is like thee? You Tailors yard, you sheath you Bow-case, you vile standing tucke.
Prin.
Well, breath a-while, and then to't againe: and when thou hast tyr'd thy selfe in base comparisons, heare me speake but thus.
Poin.
Marke Iacke.
Prin.
We two, saw you foure set on foure and bound them, and were Masters of their Wealth: mark now how a plaine Tale shall put you downe. Then did we two, set on you foure, and with a word, outfac'd you from your prize, and haue it: yea, and can shew it you in the House. And Falstaffe, you caried your Guts away as nimbly, with as quicke dexteritie, and roared for mercy, and still ranne and roar'd, as euer I heard Bull-Calfe. What a Slaue art thou, to hacke thy sword as thou hast done, and then say it was in fight. What trick? what deuice? what starting hole canst thou now find out, to hide thee from this open and apparant shame?
Poines.
Come, let's heare Iacke: What tricke hast thou now?
Fal.
I knew ye as well as he that made ye. Why heare ye my Masters, was it for me to kill the Heire apparant? Should I turne vpon the true Prince? Why, thou knowest I am as valiant as Hercules: but beware Instinct, the Lion will not touch the true Prince: Instinct is a great matter. I was a Coward on Instinct: I shall thinke the better of my selfe, and thee, during my life: I, for a valiant Lion, and thou for a true Prince. But Lads, I am glad you haue the Mony. Hostesse, clap to the doores: watch to night, pray to morrow. Gallants, Lads, Boyes, Harts of Gold, all the good Titles of Fellowship come to you. What, shall we be merry? shall we haue a Play extempory.
Prin.
Content, and the argument shall be, thy runing away.
Fal.
A, no more of that Hall, and thou louest me.
Enter Hostesse
Host.
My Lord, the Prince?
Prin.
How now my Lady the Hostesse, what say'st thou to me?
Hostesse.
Marry, my Lord, there is a Noble man of the Court at doore would speake with you: hee sayes, hee comes from your Father.
Prin.
Giue him as much as will make him a Royall man, and send him backe againe to my Mother.
Falst.
What manner of man is hee?
Hostesse.
An old man.
Falst.
What doth Grauitie out of his Bed at Midnight? Shall I giue him his answere?
Prin.
Prethee doe Iacke.
Falst.
'Faith, and Ile send him packing. Exit.
Prince.
Now Sirs: you fought faire; so did you Peto, so did you Bardol: you are Lyons too, you ranne away vpon instinct: you will not touch the true Prince; no, fie.
Bard.
'Faith, I ranne when I saw others runne.
Prin.
Tell mee now in earnest, how came Falstaffes Sword so hackt?
Peto.
Why, he hackt it with his Dagger, and said, hee would sweare truth out of England, but hee would make you beleeue it was done in fight, and perswaded vs to doe the like.
Bard.
Yea, and to tickle our Noses with Spear-grasse, to make them bleed, and then to beslubber our garments with it, and sweare it was the blood of true men. I did that I did not this seuen yeeres before, I blusht to heare his monstrous deuices.
Prin.
O Villaine, thou stolest a Cup of Sacke eighteene yeeres agoe, and wert taken with the manner, and euer since thou hast blusht extempore: thou hadst fire and sword on thy side, and yet thou ranst away; what instinct hadst thou for it?
Bard.
My Lord, doe you see these Meteors? doe you behold these Exhalations?
Prin.
I doe.
Bard.
What thinke you they portend?
Prin.
Hot Liuers, and cold Purses.
Bard.
Choler, my Lord, if rightly taken.
Prin.
No, if rightly taken, Halter.
Enter Falstaffe.
Heere comes leane Iacke, heere comes bare-bone. How now my sweet Creature of Bombast, how long is't agoe, Iacke, since thou saw'st thine owne Knee?
Falst.
My owne Knee? When I was about thy yeeres (Hal) I was not an Eagles Talent in the Waste, I could haue crept into any Aldermans Thumbe-Ring: a plague of sighing and griefe, it blowes a man vp like a Bladder. There's villanous Newes abroad; heere was Sir Iohn Braby from your Father; you must goe to the Court in the Morning. The same mad fellow of the North, Percy; and hee of Wales, that gaue Amamon the Bastinado, and made Lucifer Cuckold, and swore the Deuill his true Liege-man vpon the Crosse of a Welch-hooke; what a plague call you him?
Poin.
O, Glendower.
Falst.
Owen, Owen; the same, and his Sonne in Law Mortimer, and old Northumberland, and the sprightly Scot of Scots, Dowglas, that runnes a Horse-backe vp a Hill perpendicular.
Prin.
Hee that rides at high speede, and with a Pistoll kills a Sparrow flying.
Falst.
You haue hit it.
Prin.
So did he neuer the Sparrow.
Falst.
Well, that Rascall hath good mettall in him, hee will not runne.
Prin.
Why, what a Rascall art thou then, to prayse him so for running?
Falst.
A Horse-backe (ye Cuckoe) but a foot hee will not budge a foot.
Prin.
Yes Iacke, vpon instinct.
Falst.
I grant ye, vpon instinct: Well, hee is there too, and one Mordake, and a thousand blew-Cappes more. Worcester is stolne away by Night: thy Fathers Beard is turn'd white with the Newes; you may buy Land now as cheape as stinking Mackrell.
Prin.
Then 'tis like, if there come a hot Sunne, and this ciuill buffetting hold, wee shall buy Maiden-heads as they buy Hob-nayles, by the Hundreds.
Falst.
By the Masse Lad, thou say'st true, it is like wee shall haue good trading that way. But tell me Hal, art not thou horrible afear'd? thou being Heire apparant, could the World picke thee out three such Enemyes againe, as that Fiend Dowglas, that Spirit Percy, and that Deuill Glendower? Art not thou horrible afraid? Doth not thy blood thrill at it?
Prin.
Not a whit: I lacke some of thy instinct.
Falst.
Well, thou wilt be horrible chidde to morrow, when thou commest to thy Father: if thou doe loue me, practise an answere.
Prin.
Doe thou stand for my Father, and examine mee vpon the particulars of my Life.
Falst.
Shall I? content: This Chayre shall bee my State, this Dagger my Scepter, and this Cushion my Crowne.
Prin.
Thy State is taken for a Ioyn'd-Stoole, thy Golden Scepter for a Leaden Dagger, and thy precious rich Crowne, for a pittifull bald Crowne.
Falst.
Well, and the fire of Grace be not quite out of thee now shalt thou be moued. Giue me a Cup of Sacke to make mine eyes looke redde, that it may be thought I haue wept, for I must speake in passion, and I will doe it in King Cambyses vaine.
Prin.
Well, heere is my Legge.
Falst.
And heere is my speech: stand aside Nobilitie.
Hostesse.
This is excellent sport, yfaith.
Falst.
Weepe not, sweet Queene, for trickling teares are vaine.
Hostesse.
O the Father, how hee holdes his countenance?
Falst.
For Gods sake Lords, conuey my trustfull Queen,
For teares doe stop the floud-gates of her eyes.
Hostesse.
O rare, he doth it as like one of these harlotry Players, as euer I see.
Falst. Peace good Pint-pot, peace good Tickle-braine. Harry, I doe not onely maruell where thou spendest thy time; but also, how thou art accompanied: For though the Camomile, the more it is troden, the faster it growes; yet Youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it weares. Thou art my Sonne: I haue partly thy Mothers Word, partly my Opinion; but chiefely, a villanous tricke of thine Eye, and a foolish hanging of thy nether Lippe, that doth warrant me. If then thou be Sonne to mee, heere lyeth the point: why, being Sonne to me, art thou so poynted at? Shall the blessed Sonne of Heauen proue a Micher, and eate Black-berryes? a question not to bee askt. Shall the Sonne of England proue a Theefe, and take Purses? a question to be askt. There is a thing, Harry, which thou hast often heard of, and it is knowne to
many in our Land, by the Name of Pitch: this Pitch (as ancient Writers doe report) doth defile; so doth the companie thou keepest: for Harry, now I doe not speake to thee in Drinke, but in Teares; not in Pleasure, but in Passion; not in Words onely, but in Woes also: and yet there is a vertuous man, whom I haue often noted in thy companie, but I know not his Name.
Prin.
What manner of man, and it like your Maiestie?
Falst.
A goodly portly man yfaith, and a corpulent, of a chearefull Looke, a pleasing Eye, and a most noble Carriage, and as I thinke, his age some fiftie, or (byrlady) inclining to threescore; and now I remember mee, his Name is Falstaffe: if that man should be lewdly giuen, hee deceiues mee; for Harry, I see Vertue in his Lookes. If then the Tree may be knowne by the Fruit, as the Fruit by the Tree, then peremptorily I speake it, there is Vertue in that Falstaffe: him keepe with, the rest banish. And tell mee now, thou naughtie Varlet, tell mee, where hast thou beene this moneth?
Prin.
Do'st thou speake like a King? doe thou stand for mee, and Ile play my Father.
Falst.
Depose me: if thou do'st it halfe so grauely, so maiestically, both in word and matter, hang me vp by the heeles for a Rabbet-sucker, or a Poulters Hare.
Prin.
Well, heere I am set.
Falst.
And heere I stand: iudge my Masters.
Prin.
Now Harry, whence come you?
Falst.
My Noble Lord, from East-cheape.
Prin.
The complaints I heare of thee, are grieuous.
Falst.
Yfaith, my Lord, they are false: Nay, Ile tickle ye for a young Prince.
Prin.
Swearest thou, vngracious Boy? henceforth ne're looke on me: thou art violently carryed away from Grace: there is a Deuill haunts thee, in the likenesse of a fat old Man; a Tunne of Man is thy Companion: Why do'st thou conuerse with that Trunke of Humors, that Boulting-Hutch of Beastlinesse, that swolne Parcell of Dropsies, that huge Bombard of Sacke, that stuft Cloake-bagge of Guts, that rosted Manning Tree Oxe with the Pudding in his Belly, that reuerend Vice, that grey iniquitie, that Father Ruffian, that Vanitie in yeeres? wherein is he good, but to taste Sacke, and drinke it? wherein neat and cleanly, but to carue a Capon, and eat it? wherein Cunning, but in Craft? wherein Craftie, but in Villanie? wherein Villanous, but in all things? wherein worthy, but in nothing?
Falst.
I would your Grace would take me with you: whom meanes your Grace?
Prince.
That villanous abhominable mis-leader of Youth, Falstaffe, that old white-bearded Sathan.
Falst.
My Lord, the man I know.
Prince.
I know thou dost.
Falst.
But to say, I know more harme in him then in my selfe, were to say more then I know. That hee is olde (the more the pittie) his white hayres doe witnesse it: but that hee is (sauing your reuerence) a Whore-ma-ster, that I vtterly deny. If Sacke and Sugar bee a fault, Heauen helpe the Wicked: if to be olde and merry, be a sinne, then many an olde Hoste that I know, is damn'd: if to be fat, be to be hated, then Pharaohs leane Kine are to be loued. No, my good Lord, banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poines: but for sweete Iacke Falstaffe, kinde Iacke Falstaffe, true Iacke Falstaffe, valiant Iacke Falstaffe, and therefore more valiant, being as hee is olde Iack Falstaffe, banish not him thy Harryes companie, banish not him thy Harryes companie; banish plumpe Iacke, and banish all the World.
Prince.
I doe, I will.
Enter Bardolph running.
Bard.
O, my Lord, my Lord, the Sherife, with a most monstrous Watch, is at the doore.
Falst.
Out you Rogue, play out the Play: I haue much to say in the behalfe of that Falstaffe.
Enter the Hostesse.
Hostesse.
O, my Lord, my Lord.
Falst.
Heigh, heigh, the Deuill rides vpon a Fiddle-sticke: what's the matter?
Hostesse.
The Sherife and all the Watch are at the doore: they are come to search the House, shall I let them in?
Falst.
Do'st thou heare Hal, neuer call a true peece of Gold a Counterfeit: thou art essentially made, without seeming so.
Prince.
And thou a naturall Coward, without instinct.
Falst.
I deny your Maior: if you will deny the Sherife, so: if not, let him enter. If I become not a Cart as well as another man, a plague on my bringing vp: I hope I shall as soone be strangled with a Halter, as another.
Prince.
Goe hide thee behinde the Arras, the rest walke vp aboue. Now my Masters, for a true Face and good Conscience.
Falst.
Both which I haue had: but their date is out, and therefore Ile hide me. Exit.
Prince.
Call in the Sherife.
Enter Sherife and the Carrier.
Prince.
Now Master Sherife, what is your will with mee?
She.
First pardon me, my Lord. A Hue and Cry hath followed certaine men vnto this house.
Prince.
What men?
She.
One of them is well knowne, my gracious Lord, a grosse fat man.
Car.
As fat as Butter.
Prince.
The man, I doe assure you, is not heere,
For I my selfe at this time haue imploy'd him:
And Sherife, I will engage my word to thee,
That I will by to morrow Dinner time,
Send him to answere thee, or any man,
For any thing he shall be charg'd withall:
And so let me entreat you, leaue the house.
She.
I will, my Lord: there are two Gentlemen Haue in this Robberie lost three hundred Markes.
Prince.
It may be so: if he haue robb'd these men, He shall be answerable: and so farewell.
She.
Good Night, my Noble Lord.
Prince.
I thinke it is good Morrow, is it not?
She.
Indeede, my Lord, I thinke it be two a Clocke. Exit.
Prince.
This oyly Rascall is knowne as well as Poules: goe call him forth.
Peto.
Falstaffe? fast asleepe behinde the Arras, and snorting like a Horse.
Prince.
Harke, how hard he fetches breath: search his Pockets.
He searcheth his Pockets, and findeth certaine Papers.
What hast thou found?
Peto.
Nothing but Papers, my Lord.
Prince.
Let's see, what be they? reade them.
Peto.
Item, a Capon.ii.s.ii.d. Item, Sawceiiii.d. Item, Sacke, two Gallons.v.s.viii.d. Item, Anchoues and Sacke after Supper.ii.s.vi.d. Item, Bread.ob.
Prince.
O monstrous, but one halfe penny-worth of Bread to this intollerable deale of Sacke? What there is else, keepe close, wee'le reade it at more aduantage: there let him sleepe till day. Ile to the Court in the Morning: Wee must all to the Warres, and thy place shall be honorable. Ile procure this fat Rogue a Charge of Foot, and I know his death will be a Match of Twelue-score. The Money shall be pay'd backe againe with aduantage. Be with me betimes in the Morning: and so good morrow Peto.
Peto. Good morrow, good my Lord. Exeunt.
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