ACT III.

SCENE I.

Enter King Henry with a Page.

K. Henry. Co, call the Earls of Surrey, and Warwicks But e'er they come, bid them o'er-read thef

Letters,

And well confider of them: make good speed. (Exit Page.
How many thousands of my poorest Subjects
Are at this hour afleep! O Sleep, O gentle S'eep,
Nature's foft Nurse, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my Eye-lids down,
And steep my Senses in Forgetfulness?
Why rather, Sleep, lyest thou in finoaky Cribs,
Upon uneafie Pallads stretching thee,
And husht with buzzing Night, fly'st to thy slumber,
Than in the perfum'd Chambers of the Great,
Under the Canopies of costly State,
And lull'd with founds of fweetest Melody?
O thou dull God, why ly'st thou with the vile,
In loathsom Beds, and leav'st 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 visitation of the Winds,
Who take the Ruffian Billows by the top,
Curling their monftrous heads, and hanging them
With deafning Clamours in the flip'ry Clouds,
That with the hurley, Death it felf awakes?
Canst thou, O partial Sleep, give thy Repose
To the wet Sea-boy in an hour so rude?
And in the calmeft, and most stillest 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 Majesty.
K. Henry. Is it good-morrow, Lords?
War. 'Tis one a Clock, and past.

K. Henry.

K. Henry. Why then good-morrow to you all, my Lords: Have you read o'er the Letters that I sent you?

War. We have, my Liege.

K. Henry. Then you perceive the Body of our Kingdom,
How foul it is; what rank Diseases grow,
And with what Danger, near the Heart of it.

War. It is but as a Body, yet distemper'd,
Which to the former strength may be restor'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 solid firmness, melt it felf
Into the Sea; and other Times, to see

[To Warwick.

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 feast together; and in two years after,
Were they at Wars. It is but eight years since,
This Percy was the Man nearest 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,
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 Cousin Bullingbroke afcends my Throne:
(Though then, Heaven knows, I had no such intent,
But that neceffity so bow'd the State,
That I and Greatness were compell'd to kiss)
The time shall 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 same Time's Condition,
And the divifion of our Amity.

War.

War. There is a History in all Mens Lives,
Figuring the nature of the Times deceas'd;
The which observ'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 entreasured.
Such things become the Hatch and Brood of Time;
And by the necessary 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 Necessities?
Then let us meet them like Neceffities;
And that the same word, even now cries out on us:
They say 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 sent forth,
Shall bring this Prize in very easily.
To comfort you the more, I have receiv'd
A certain instance that Glendower is dead.
Your Majesty hath been this Fort-night ill,
And these unseason'd Hours perforce must add
Unto your Sickness.

K. Henry. I will take your Counsel:
And were these 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 stirrer, 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 say my Cousin Willam is become a good Scholar? He is at Oxford still, is he not? Sil. Indeed, Sir, to my Coft.

Shal. He must then to the Inns of Court shortly: 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 say to you, we knew where the Bona-Roba's were, and had the best 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 Stock-fish, a Fruiterer, behind Grays-Inn. Oh the Mad Days that I have spent? and to see how many of mine old Acquaintance are dead?

Sil. We fiall all follow, Coufin.

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

Sil. Truly, Coufin, I was not there.

Shal. Death is certain. Is Old Double of your Town living yet?

Sil. Dead, Sir.

Shal. Dead! See, see, he drew a good Bow: And Dead? He shot a fine Shoot. John of Gaunt loved him well, and beated 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, Honest Gentlemen.

Bard. I befeech you, which is Justice Shallow ?

Shal. I am Robert Shallow, Sir, a poor Esquire of this

County, one of the King's Justices 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 most 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 Accommodo; very good, a good Phrafe.

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 say, Accommodated; or, when a Man is, being whereby he thought to be Accommodated, which is an excellent thing.

Enter Falstaff.

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

Fal. I am glad to see you well, good Master Robert

Shallow: Mafter Sure-card, as I think?

Shal.