King Henry IV. William Hazlitt

keep that for the hangman; for

       I know thou worshippest Saint Nicholas as truly as a man of

       falsehood may.

      GADS. What talkest thou to me of the hangman? if I hang, I’ll make a fat pair of gallows; for, if I hang, old Sir John hangs with me, and thou know’st he is no starveling. Tut! there are other Trojans that thou dreamest not of, the which, for sport-sake, are content to do the profession some grace; that would, if matters should be look’d into, for their own credit-sake, make all whole. I am joined with no foot land-rakers, no long-staff sixpenny strikers, none of these mad mustachio purple-hued malt-worms; but with nobility and tranquillity, burgomasters and great oneyers; such as can hold in, such as will strike sooner than speak, and speak sooner than drink, and drink sooner than pray: and yet, zwounds, I lie; for they pray continually to their saint, the Commonwealth; or, rather, not pray to her, but prey on her, for they ride up and down on her, and make her their boots.

      CHAM. What, the Commonwealth their boots? will she hold out water in foul way?

      GADS. She will, she will; justice hath liquor’d her. We steal as in a castle, cock-sure; we have the receipt of fernseed,—we walk invisible.

      CHAM. Nay, by my faith, I think you are more beholding to the night than to fernseed for your walking invisible.

      GADS.

       Give me thy hand: thou shalt have a share in our purchase, as

       I am a true man.

      CHAM.

       Nay, rather let me have it, as you are a false thief.

      GADS. Go to; homo is a common name to all men. Bid the ostler bring my gelding out of the stable. Farewell, you muddy knave.

      [Exeunt.]

      SCENE II.

       The Road by Gadshill.

       Table of Contents

      [Enter Prince Henry and Pointz; Bardolph and Peto at some distance.]

      POINTZ. Come, shelter, shelter: I have remov’d Falstaff’s horse, and he frets like a gumm’d velvet.

      PRINCE.

       Stand close.

       [They retire.]

      [Enter Falstaff.]

      FAL.

       Pointz! Pointz, and be hang’d! Pointz!

      PRINCE.

       [Coming forward.]

       Peace, ye fat-kidney’d rascal! what a brawling dost thou keep!

      FAL.

       Where’s Pointz, Hal?

      PRINCE.

       He is walk’d up to the top of the hill: I’ll go seek him.

       [Retires.]

      FAL. I am accursed to rob in that thief’s company: the rascal hath removed my horse, and tied him I know not where. If I travel but four foot by the squire further a-foot, I shall break my wind. Well, I doubt not but to die a fair death for all this, if I ‘scape hanging for killing that rogue. I have forsworn his company hourly any time this two-and-twenty year, and yet I am bewitch’d with the rogue’s company. If the rascal have not given me medicines to make me love him, I’ll be hang’d; it could not be else: I have drunk medicines.— Pointz!—Hal!—a plague upon you both!—Bardolph!—Peto!—I’ll starve, ere I’ll rob a foot further. An ‘twere not as good a deed as drink, to turn true man, and to leave these rogues, I am the veriest varlet that ever chewed with a tooth. Eight yards of uneven ground is threescore and ten miles a-foot with me; and the stony-hearted villains know it well enough: a plague upon’t, when thieves cannot be true one to another! [They whistle.] Whew!—A plague upon you all! Give me my horse, you rogues; give me my horse, and be hang’d!

      PRINCE. [Coming forward.] Peace! lie down; lay thine ear close to the ground, and list if thou canst hear the tread of travellers.

      FAL. Have you any levers to lift me up again, being down? ‘Sblood, I’ll not bear mine own flesh so far a-foot again for all the coin in thy father’s exchequer. What a plague mean ye to colt me thus?

      PRINCE.

       Thou liest; thou art not colted, thou art uncolted.

      FAL. I pr’ythee, good Prince Hal, help me to my horse, good king’s son.

      PRINCE.

       Out, ye rogue! shall I be your ostler?

      FAL. Go, hang thyself in thine own heir-apparent garters! If I be ta’en, I’ll peach for this. An I have not ballads made on you all, and sung to filthy tunes, let a cup of sack be my poison. When a jest is so forward, and a-foot too, I hate it.

      [Enter Gadshill.]

      GADS.

       Stand!

      FAL.

       So I do, against my will.

      POINTZ.

       O, ‘tis our setter: I know his voice.

       [Comes forward with Bardolph and Peto.]

      BARD.

       What news?

      GADS. Case ye, case ye; on with your visards: there’s money of the King’s coming down the hill; ‘tis going to the King’s exchequer.

      FAL.

       You lie, ye rogue; ‘tis going to the King’s tavern.

      GADS.

       There’s enough to make us all.

      FAL.

       To be hang’d.

      PRINCE.

       Sirs, you four shall front them in the narrow lane; Ned

       Pointz and I will walk lower; if they ‘scape from your

       encounter, then they light on us.

      PETO.

       How many be there of them?

      GADS.

       Some eight or ten.

      FAL.

       Zwounds, will they not rob us?

      PRINCE.

       What, a coward, Sir John Paunch?

      FAL. Indeed, I am not John of Gaunt, your grandfather; but yet no coward, Hal.

      PRINCE.

       Well, we leave that to the proof.

      POINTZ. Sirrah Jack, thy horse stands behind the hedge: when thou need’st him, there thou shalt find him. Farewell, and stand fast.

      FAL.

       Now cannot I strike him, if I should be hang’d.

      PRINCE. [aside to POINTZ.] Ned, where are our disguises?

      POINTZ. [aside to PRINCE HENRY.] Here, hard by: stand close.

      [Exeunt Prince and Pointz.]

      FAL. Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say I: every man to his business.

      [Enter Travellers.]

      FIRST TRAVELLER.

       Come, neighbour:

       The boy shall lead our horses down the hill;

       We’ll walk a-foot awhile and ease our legs.

      FALS, GADS., &C.

       Stand!

      SECOND TRAVELLER.

       Jesu bless us!

      FAL. Strike; down with them; cut the villains’ throats. Ah, whoreson caterpillars! bacon-fed knaves! they hate us