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I know you wise; but yet no further wise,
The Boar's Head Tavern, in Eastcheap.
Enter HENRY, PRINCE OF WALEs.
P. Hen. Ned, pr’ythee come out of that fat room, And lend me thy hand to laugh a little.
Poins. Where hast been, Hal 2
P. Hen. With three or four loggerheads, amongst three or four score hogsheads. I have sounded the very base string of humility. Sirrah, I am sworn brother to a leash of drawers, and can call them all by their Christian names, as—Tom, Dick, and Francis. They take it already upon their salvation, that, though I be but Prince of Wales, yet I am the king of courtesy; and tell me flatly, I am no proud Jack, like Falstaff; but a Corinthian, a lad of mettle, a good boy,-by the lord so they call me, and, when I am King of England, I shall command all the good lads in Eastcheap. To conclude, I am so good a proficient in one quarter of an hour, that I can drink with any tinker in his own language, during my life, I tell thee, Ned, thou hast lost much honour, that thou wert not with me in this action. But, Sweet Ned,—to sweeten which name of Ned, I give thee this pennyworth of sugar, clapped even now into my hand by an under-skinker; one that never spake other English in his life, than—“Eight shillings and sixpence,”—and “You are welcome;" with this shrill addition, “Anon, anon, sir,”—“Score a pint of bastard in the Half-moon,” or so. But, Ned, to drive away the time till Falstaff come, I prythee, do thou stand in some by-room, while I question my puny drawer to what end he gave me the sugar: and do thou never leave calling–Francis, that his tale to me may be nothing but—anon. Step aside, and I ll show thee a precedent.
Poins. Francis 1 [Erit Poins,
P. Hen. Thou art perfect.
Fran. Anon, anon, sir.—Look down into the Pomgranate, Ralph.
P. Hen. Come hither, Francis.
Fran. My lord.
P. Hen. How long hast thou to serve, Francis?
Fran. Forsooth, five years, and as much as to—
Fran. Anon, anon, sir. .
P. Hen. Five years! by’r lady, a long lease for the clinking of pewter | But, Francis, dar'st thou be so valiant as to play the coward with thy indenture, and show it a fair pair of heels, and run from it?
Fran. O lord, sir, I'll be sworn upon all the books in England, I could find in my heart— Puins. Francis I Fran. Anon, anon, sir. P. Hen. How old art thou, Francis 2 Fran. Let me see,_About Michaelmas next I shall be— Poins. Francis Fran. Anon, sir.——"Pray you stay a little, my lord, P. Hen. Nay, but hark you, Francis: for the sugar thou gav'st me, ’twas a pennyworth, was’t not : Fran. O lord, sir, I would it had been two. P. Hen. I will give thee for it a thousand pound: ask me when thou wilt, and thou shalt have it. Poins. Francis' Fran. Anon, anon. P. Hen. Anon, Francis 3–No, Francis ; but, tomorrow, Francis; or, Francis, on Thursday; or, indeed, Francis, when thou wilt. But, Francis— Fran. My lords P. Hen. Wilt thou rob this leathern-jerkin, crystal button, nott-pated, agate-ring, puke-stocking, caddis-garter, smooth-tongue, Spanish-pouch,Fran. O lord, sir, who do you mean : P. Hen. Why, then, your brown bastard is your only drink: for look you, Francis, your white canvas doublet will sully: in Barbary, sir, it cannot come to so much. - Fran. What, sir? Poins. Francis' P. Hen. Away, you rogue; dost thou not hear them call 2 [Here they both call him ; , FRANC is stands amazed, not knowing which way to go.
Enter Host Ess.
a calling 2—Look to the guests within. [Exit FRANcis.] My lord, old Sir John, with half a dozen more, are at the door; shall I let them in 3 P. Hen. Let them alone awhile, and then open the door. [Erit HostEss.] Poins,
Poins. Anon, anon, sir. P. Hen. Sirrah! Falstaff, and the rest of the thieves are at the door; shall we be merry?. Poins. As merry as crickets, my lad. But, hark ye; what cunning match have ye made with this jest of the drawer? come, what's the issue? P. Hen. I am now of all humours, that have showed themselves humours, since the old days of goodman Adam, to the pupil age of this present twelve o'clock at midnight.—What’s o'clock, Francis? Fran. [Within..] Anon, anon, sir. P. Hen. That ever this fellow should have fewer words than a parrot, and yet the son of a woman!— His industry is—up stairs and down stairs; his eloquence, the parcel of a reckoning. I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the north; he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots at a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife—“Fie upon this quiet life!—I want work”—“O my sweet Harry,” says she, “how many hast thou killed today;”—Give my roan horse a drench,” says he; and answers, “Some fourteen,” an hour after; “a trifle, a trifle!” I pr’ythee, call in Falstaff; I'll play Percy, and that damned brawn shall play Dame Mortimer, his wife. Rivo, says the drunkard.—Call in ribs, call in tallow !
Enter FALSTAFF, GADSHILL, BARDOLPH, PET0, &nd FRANCIS.
Poins. Welcome, Jack. Where hast thou been
geance, too ! marry, and amen!—Give me a cup of 9
sack, boy.-Ere I lead this life long, I'll sew nether-