Or dive into the bottom of the deep,
Where fadom-line could never touch the ground,
And pluck up drowned honour by the locks:
So he that doth redeem her thence might wear
Without co-rival all her dignities.

But out upon this half-fac'd fellowship!

Wor. He apprehends a world of figures here,
But not the form of what he should attend.
Good coufin, give me audience for a while.
Hot. I cry you mercy.

Wor. Thofe fame noble Scots

That are your prisoners ·

Hot. I'll keep them all.

By heav'n, he fhall not have a Scot of them:
No, if a Scot would fave his foul, he shall not;
I'll keep them, by this hand.

Wor. You ftart away,

And lend no ear unto my purposes,
Those prisoners you fhall keep.

Hot. I will; that's flat:

He faid he would not ransom Mortimer :
Forbad my tongue to speak of Mortimer :
But I will find him when he lyes asleep,
And in his ear I'll holla, Mortimer!
Nay, I will have a Starling taught to speak
Nothing but Mortimer, and give it him,
To keep his anger ftill in motion.

Wor. Hear you, coufin: a word

Hot. All ftudies here I folemnly defie,
Save how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke:

And that fame fword-and-buckler-Prince of Wales,
But that I think his father loves him not,

And would be glad he met with some mischance,
I'd have him poison'd with a pot of ale.

Wor. Farewel, my kinfman; I will talk to you
When you are better temper'd to attend.

North. Why, what a wafp-tongu'd and impatient fool Art thou, to break into this woman's mood, Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own?

Het, Why, look you, I am whipt and fcourg'd with rods,

Nettled,

Nettled, and ftung with pifmires, when I hear
Of this vile politician Bolingbroke:

In Richard's time what do ye call the place
A plague upon't
it is in Glofterfire

'Twas where the mad-cap Duke his uncle kept
His uncle York where I firft bow'd my knee
Unto this King of fmiles, this Bolingbroke:
When you and he came back from Ravenspurg.
North. At Barkley castle.

Hot. You fay true:

Why, what a deal of candied courtefie

This fawning greyhound then did proffer me!
Look, when his infant fortune came to age,
And gentle Harry Percy
and kind coufin,
The devil take fuch cozeners →→→→→ God forgive me
Good uncle, tell your tale, for I have done.

Wor. Nay, if you have not, to't again, we'll stay Your leifure.

Hot. I have done, i' faith.

Wor. Then once more to your Scottish prifoners.
Deliver them without their ranfom trait,
And make the Douglas' fon your only mean
For pow'rs in Scotland; which for divers reafons
Which I fhall fend you written, he affur'd
Will eafily be granted: you, my Lord,
(Your fon in Scotland being thus employ’d)
Shall fecretly into the bofom creep

Of that fame noble Prelate, well beloy'd,
Th' Arch-bishop.

Hot. York, is't not?

Wor. True, who bears hard

His brother's death at Bristol, the Lord Scroop.
I fpeak not this in estimation,

As what I think might be, but what I know
Is ruminated, plotted and fet down,

And only ftays but to behold the face

Of that occafion that fhall bring it on.

Hot. I fmell it: on my life, it will do web.

[To North.

North. Before the game's a-foot, thou ftill lett'At flip. Hot. It cannot chufe but be a noble plot;

And

And then the power of Scotland, and of York
To join with Mortimer; ha!
Woe. So they fhall.

Hot. In faith, it is exceedingly well aim'd.
Wor. 'And 'tis no little reafon bids us speed
To fave our heads, by raifing of a head:
For bear our felves as even as we can,
The King will always think him in our debt,
And think we deem our felves unfatisfy'd,
'Till he hath found a time to pay us home.
And fee already, how he doth begin

To make us ftrangers to his looks of love.

Hot. He does, he does; we'll be reveng'd on him.
Wor. Coufin, farewel. No further go in this
Than I by letters fhall direct your course;
When time is ripe, which will be fuddenly,
I'll teal to Glendower, and Lord Mortimer,
Where you, and Douglas, and our pow'rs at once,
(As I will fashion it) shall happily meet,

To bear our fortunes in our own ftrong arms,
Which now we hold at much uncertainty.

North. Farewel, good brother; we shall thrive, I trust. Hot. Uncle, adieu! O let the hours be short,

'Till fields, and blows, and groans applaud our sport.

1 Car. H

ACT II. SCENE I.

An Inn at Rochester.

[Exeunt.

Enter a Carrier with a Lantborn in his Hand. EIGH ho, an't be not four by the day I'll be hang'd. Charles' wain is over the new chimney, and yet our horse not packt. What, oftler! Oft. Anon, anon!

44

1 Car. I pr'ythee, Tom, beat Cutt's faddle, put a few flock in the point; the poor jade is wrung in the withers, out of all cafe.

Enter another Carrier.

2 Car. Peafe and beans are as dank here as a dog, and that is the next way to give poor jades the bots: this house is turn'd upfide down, fince Robin Oftler dy❜d.

1 Car. Poor fellow never joy'd fince the price of oats rofe, it was the death of him.

2 Car. I think this be the most villainous house in all London road for fleas: I am ftung like a Tench..

1 Car. Like a Tench? by th' Mafs there's ne'er a King in Christendom could be better bit, than I have been fince the first cock.

2 Car. Why, they will allow us ne'er a jourden, and then we leak in the chimney: and your chamber-lie breeds fleas like a Loach.

1 Car. What, oftler, come away, and be hang'd, come away!

2 Car. I have a gammon of bacon, and two razes of ginger, to be deliver'd as far as Charing-Crofs.

I Car. 'Odfbody, the Turkies in my panniers are quitë ftarv'd. What oftler! a plague on thee; haft thou never an eye in thy head? canft not hear? an 'twere not as good a deed as drink, to break the pate of thee, I am a very villain. Come and be hang'd, haft no faith in thee?

Enter Gads-hill.

Gads. Good-morrow, carriers. What's a clock? 1 Car. I think it be two a Clock.

Gads. I pr'ythee, lend me thy lanthorn, to fee my gelding in the ftable.

1 Car. Nay, foft, I pray ye; I know a trick worth two of that, i' faith.

Gads. I pr'ythee, lend me thine.

2 Car. Ay, when? canft tell? lend me thy lanthorn, quoth a! marry, I'll fee thee hang'd firft.

Gads. Sirrah, carrier, what time do you mean to come to London ?

2 Car. Time enough to go to bed with a candle, I warrant thee. Come, neighbour Mugges, we'll call up the gentlemen; they will along with company, for they have great charge. [Exeunt Carriers. SCENE II. Enter Chamberlain,

Gads. What, ho, chamberlain !

Chamb. At hand, quoth pick-purfe.

Gads. That's even as fair, as at hand, quoth the cham berlain; for thou varieft no more from picking of purfes,

than

than giving direction doth from labouring. Thou lay'ft the plot how,

Chamb, Good-morrow, mafter Gads-bill, it holds currant that I told you yefternight. There's a Franklin in the wild of Kent, hath brought three hundred marks with him in gold; I heard him tell it to one of his company last night at fupper; a kind of auditor, one that hath abundance of charge too, God knows what: they are up already, and call for eggs and butter. They will away prefently.

Gads. Sirrah, if they meet not with* St. Nicholas clarks, I'll give thee this neck.

Chamb. No, I'll none of it: I pr'ythee, keep that for the hangman! for I know thou worshipp'ft St. Nicholas as truly as a man of falfhood may.

Gads. What talk'ft 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's no starveling. Tut, there are other Trojans that thou dream'ft not of, the which, for sport-fake, are content to do the pro feffion fome grace; that would, if matters fhould be look' into, for their own credit fake, make all whole, I am join'd with no foot land-rakers, no long-ftaff fixpennytrikers, none of those mad Muftachio-purple-hu'd-malt worms; but with nobility and tranquillity; burgomafters and great owners, fuch as can hold in, fuch as will ftrike fooner than fpeak; and speak sooner than think; and think fooner than pray; and yet I lie, for they pray continually unto their faint the common-wealth; or rather, not pray to her, but prey on her; for they ride up and down on her,

or make her their boots.

Chamb. What, the common-wealth their boots? will the hold out water in foul way?"

Gads. She will, fhe will; juftice hath liquor'd her. We fteal, as in a caftle, cock-fure; we have the receipt of Fern-feed, we walk invifible,

Chamb, Nay, I think rather, you are more beholden to the night, than the Fern-feed, for your walking invifible.

• A cant word for the Devil, Nick.

Gads.