of the purse; borrowing only lingers and lingers it out, but the disease is incurable. -Go bear this letter to my lord of Lancaster; this to the prince; this to the earl of Westmoreland; and this to old mistress Ursula, whom I have weekly sworn to marry since I perceived the first white hair on my chin. About it, you know where to find me. [Exit Page.] A pox of this gout, or, a gout of this pox! for the one, or the other, plays the rogue with my great toe. It is no matter, if I do halt; I have the wars for my color, and my pension shall seem the more reasonable. A good wit will make use of any thing; I will turn diseases to commodity. [Exit.

SCENE III. York. A Room in the Archbishop's Palace.

Enter the Archbishop of York; the LORDS HASTINGS, MOWBRAY, and BARDOLPH.

Arch. Thus have you heard our cause, and known

our means;

And, my most noble friends, I pray you all,
Speak plainly your opinions of our hopes.-
And first, lord marshal, what say you to it?

Mowb. I well allow the occasion of our arms;
But gladly would be better satisfied,
How, in our means, we should advance ourselves
To look with forehead bold and big enough
Upon the power and puissance of the king.

Hast. Our present musters grow upon the file
To five-and-twenty thousand men of choice;
And our supplies live largely in the hope
Of great Northumberland, whose bosom burns
With an incensed fire of injuries.

Bard. The question then, lord Hastings, standeth

thus:

Whether our present five-and-twenty thousand
May hold up head without Northumberland.

Hast. With him, we may.

Bard.

Ay, marry, there's the point.

But if without him we be thought too feeble,

My judgment is, we should not step too far

Till we had his assistance by the hand;

For, in a theme so bloody-faced as this,

Conjecture, expectation, and surmise

Of aids uncertain, should not be admitted.

Arch. 'Tis very true, lord Bardolph; for, indeed,

It was young Hotspur's case at Shrewsbury.

Bard. It was, my lord; who lined himself with

hope,

Eating the air on promise of supply,
Flattering himself with project of a power
Much smaller than the smallest of his thoughts; 1

And so, with great imagination,

Proper to madmen, led his powers to death,
And, winking, leaped into destruction.

Hast. But, by your leave, it never yet did hurt,
To lay down likelihoods, and forms of hope.
Bard. Yes, in this present quality of war ;-
Indeed the instant action, (a cause on foot,)
Lives so in hope, as in an early spring
We see the appearing buds; which, to prove fruit,
Hope gives not so much warrant, as despair,
That frosts will bite them. When we mean to build,
We first survey the plot, then draw the model;
And when we see the figure of the house,

Then must we rate the cost of the erection;

1

Which if we find outweighs ability,
What do we then, but draw anew the model
In fewer offices; or, at least, desist

To build at all? Much more, in this great work,
(Which is, almost, to pluck a kingdom down,

And set another up,) should we survey
The plot of situation, and the model;
Consent1 upon a sure foundation;
Question surveyors; know our own estate,
How able such a work to undergo,
To weigh against his opposite; or else,
We fortify in paper, and in figures,
Using the names of men instead of men;
Like one that draws the model of a house

Beyond his power to build it; who, half through,
Gives o'er, and leaves his part-created cost
A naked subject to the weeping clouds,
And waste for churlish winter's tyranny.

Hast. Grant, that our hopes (yet likely of fair

birth)

Should be still-born, and that we now possessed
The utmost man of expectation ;

I think we are a body strong enough,

Even as we are, to equal with the king.

Bard. What! is the king but five-and-twenty thou

sand?

Hast. To us, no more; nay, not so much, lord Bar

dolph.

For his divisions, as the times do brawl,

Are in three heads: one power against the French,

And one against Glendower; perforce, a third

Must take up us. So is the unfirm king

In three divided; and his coffers sound

With hollow poverty and emptiness.

Arch. That he should draw his several strengths

together,

And come against us in full puissance,

Need not be dreaded.

Hast.

If he should do so,

He leaves his back unarmed, the French and Welsh Baying him at the heels: never fear that.

Bard. Who, is it like, should lead his forces hither?
Hast. The duke of Lancaster,1 and Westmoreland;

Against the Welsh, himself, and Harry Monmouth :
But who is substituted 'gainst the French,

I have no certain notice.

Arch.

Let us on; 2

And publish the occasion of our arms.
The commonwealth is sick of their own choice,

Their over-greedy love hath surfeited.-
A habitation giddy and unsure

Hath he, that buildeth on the vulgar heart.
O thou fond many, with what loud applause
Didst thou beat heaven with blessing Bolingbroke,
Before he was what thou wouldst have him be!
And being now trimmed3 in thine own desires,
Thou, beastly feeder, art so full of him,
That thou provok'st thyself to cast him up.
So, so, thou common dog, didst thou disgorge
Thy glutton bosom of the royal Richard;
And now thou wouldst eat thy dead vomit up,
And howl'st to find it. What trust is in these times?
They that, when Richard lived, would have him die,
Are now become enamored on his grave.
Thou, that threw'st dust upon his goodly head,
When through proud London he came sighing on
After the admired heels of Bolingbroke,

Cry'st now, O earth, yield us that king again,

And take thou this! O thoughts of men accurst! Past, and to come, seem best; things present, worst.

Mowb. Shall we go draw our numbers, and set on? Hast. We are time's subjects, and time bids be gone.

[Exeunt

ACT II.

SCENE I. London. A Street.

Enter Hostess; FANG, and his boy, with her; and SNARE, following.

Host. Master Fang, have you entered the action ? Fang. It is entered.

Host. Where is your yeoman? Is it a lusty yeo

man? will a' stand to't?

Fang. Sirrah, where's Snare?

Host. O Lord, ay; good master Snare.

Snare. Here, here.

Fang. Snare, we must arrest sir John Falstaff.

Host. Yea, good master Snare; I have entered him

and all.

Snare. It may chance cost some of us our lives, for he will stab.

Host. Alas the day! take heed of him; he stabbed me in mine own house, and that most beastly; in good faith, a' cares not what mischief he doth, if his weapon be out: he will foin like any devil; he will spare neither man, woman, nor child.

Fang. If I can close with him, I care not for his thrust. Host. No, nor I neither; I'll be at your elbow.

Fang. An I but fist him once; an a' come but within my vice; —

1 A bailiff's follower was formerly called a serjeant's yeoman.

2 The quarto reads view. Vice is used for grasp or clutch. The fist is

vulgarly called the vice in the west of England.