Henry IV: Part Two In Plain and Simple English (A Modern Translation and the Original Version)

By BookCaps

Henry IV, Part II is one of Shakespeare's most famous histories. But let's face it...if you don't understand it, then you are not alone.

If you have struggled in the past reading Shakespeare, then we can help you out. Our books and apps have been used and trusted by millions of students worldwide.

Plain and Simple English books, let you see both the original and the modern text (modern text is underneath in italics)--so you can enjoy Shakespeare, but have help if you get stuck on a passage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookCaps
• Release date: Sep 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301521890

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Characters

RUMOUR, the Presenter.

KING HENRY the Fourth.

His sons

HENRY, PRINCE OF WALES, afterwards King Henry V.

THOMAS, DUKE OF CLARENCE.

PRINCE JOHN OF LANCASTER.

PRINCE HUMPHREY OF GLOUCESTER.

EARL OF WARWICK.

EARL OF WESTMORELAND.

EARL OF SURREY.

GOWER.

HARCOURT.

BLUNT.

Lord Chief Justice of the King’s Bench.

A Servant of the Chief-Justice.

EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND.

SCROOP, Archbishop of York.

LORD MOWBRAY.

LORD HASTINGS.

LORD BARDOLPH.

SIR JOHN COLEVILLE.

TRAVERS and MORTON, retainers of Northumberland.

SIR JOHN FALSTAFF.

His Page.

BARDOLPH.

PISTOL.

POINS.

PETO.

SHALLOW and SILENCE, country justices.

DAVY, Servant to Shallow.

MOULDY, SHADOW, WART, FEEBLE, and BULLCALF, recruits.

FANG and SNARE, sheriff’s officers.

LADY NORTHUMBERLAND.

LADY PERCY.

MISTRESS QUICKLY, hostess of a tavern in Eastcheap.

DOLL TEARSHEET.

Lords and Attendants; Porter, Drawers, Beadles, Grooms, etc.

A Dancer, speaker of the epilogue.

Comparative Edition

SCENE: England.

INTRODUCTION

Warkworth. Before the castle.

[Enter Rumour, painted full of tongues.]

RUMOUR.

Open your ears; for which of you will stop

The vent of hearing when loud Rumour speaks?

I, from the orient to the drooping west,

Making the wind my post-horse, still unfold

The acts commenced on this ball of earth:

Upon my tongues continual slanders ride,

The which in every language I pronounce,

Stuffing the ears of men with false reports.

I speak of peace, while covert emnity

Under the smile of safety wounds the world:

And who but Rumour, who but only I,

Make fearful musters and prepared defence,

Whiles the big year, swoln with some other grief,

Is thought with child by the stern tyrant war,

And no such matter? Rumour is a pipe

Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures,

And of so easy and so plain a stop

That the blunt monster with uncounted heads,

The still-discordant wavering multitude,

Can play upon it. But what need I thus

My well-known body to anatomize

Among my household? Why is Rumour here?

I run before King Harry’s victory;

Who in a bloody field by Shrewsbury

Hath beaten down young Hotspur and his troops,

Quenching the flame of bold rebellion

Even with the rebels’ blood. But what mean I

To speak so true at first? my office is

To noise abroad that Harry Monmouth fell

Under the wrath of noble Hotspur’s sword,

And that the king before the Douglas’ rage

Stoop’d his anointed head as low as death.

This have I rumour’d through the peasant towns

Between that royal field of Shrewsbury

And this worm-eaten hold of ragged stone,

Where Hotspur’s father, old Northumberland,

Lies crafty-sick: the posts come tiring on,

And not a man of them brings other news

Than they have learn’d of me: from Rumour’s tongues

They bring smooth comforts false, worse than true wrongs.

Listen to me; for who will stop

listening when loud Rumour speaks?

I shall tell you about all the events

that have happened on this earth,

covering everything from East to West,

riding on the wind.

Continual falsehoods will come from my tongue,

spoken in every language,

filling the years of men with false reports.

I shall talk of peace while secret hatred

causes harm under the disguise of safety;

and who else but Rumour, only me,

can make armies gather, defences be prepared,

make everyone think war is bound

to come this year, when it

certainly isn’t? The music of Rumour

is made up of guesses, suspicions, imagination,

it’s so easy to play that the great

masses of the public

can play it. But why do I need to

explain this to you, who know me well?

Why is Rumour here?

I’m running ahead of King Harry’s victory,

who in a bloody battle at Shrewsbury

has defeated young Hotspur and his troops,

putting out the flame of bold rebellion

with the blood of the rebels. But what am I doing

speaking the truth? My job is

to spread the gossip that Harry Monmouth fell

at the hands of noble Hotspur,

and that the King bowed his holy head

as low as death in the face of the anger of Douglas.

I have spread this rumour through the peasant towns

that lie between the royal battlefield of Shrewsbury

and this worm-eaten castle of crumbling stone,

where Hotspur’s father, old Northumberland,

lies faking sickness. The messengers ride themselves to exhaustion,

and there’s not one of them carrying any other news

except what I have spread. From the tongue of Rumour

they are bringing false comfort, which is worse than real bad news.

[Exit.]

ACT I

SCENE 1. The same.

[Enter Lord Bardolph.]

LORD BARDOLPH.

Who keeps the gate here, ho?

[The Porter opens the gate.]

Where is the earl?

Where’s the gatekeeper?

Where is the Earl?

PORTER.

What shall I say you are?

Who shall I say you are?

LORD BARDOLPH.

Tell thou the earl

That the Lord Bardolph doth attend him here.

Go and tell the earl

that Lord Bardolph is waiting for him here.

PORTER.

His lordship is walk’d forth into the orchard:

Please it your honour, knock but at the gate,

And he himself will answer.

His Lordship is strolling in the orchard:

if your honour would just like to knock at the gate,

he will answer it himself.

[Enter Northumberland.]

LORD BARDOLPH.

Here comes the earl.

Here comes the Earl.

[Exit Porter.]

NORTHUMBERLAND.

What news, Lord Bardolph? every minute now

Should be the father of some stratagem:

The times are wild; contention, like a horse

Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loose

And bears down all before him.

What’s the news, Lord Bardolph? There should be

action being taken every minute:

these are wild times; conflict, like a horse

full of rich food, has madly broken loose,

and is destroying everything

LORD BARDOLPH.

Noble earl,

I bring you certain news from Shrewsbury.

Noble Earl,

I’ve brought you definite news from Shrewsbury.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Good, an God will!

Please God say it’s good news!

LORD BARDOLPH.

As good as heart can wish:

The king is almost wounded to the death;

And, in the fortune of my lord your son,

Prince Harry slain outright; and both the Blunts

Kill’d by the hand of Douglas; young Prince John,

And Westmoreland and Stafford fled the field:

And Harry Monmouth’s brawn, the hulk Sir John,

Is prisoner to your son: O, such a day,

So fought, so follow’d and so fairly won,

Came not till now to dignify the times,

Since Caesar’s fortunes!

As good as the heart could wish for:

the King has been wounded, almost killed;

and as for the fate of my lord your son,

he has killed Prince Harry, and both the Blunts

have been killed by Douglas; young Prince John

fled from the battlefield with Westmorland and Stafford:

and Harry Monmouth’s strongman, the great lump Sir John,

is held prisoner by your son: there hasn’t been a day

of fighting, of such great victory,

that has so enhanced the glory of the times

since Caesar’s triumphs!

NORTHUMBERLAND.

How is this derived?

Saw you the field? came you from Shrewsbury?

How did this happen?

Did you see the battle? Have you come from Shrewsbury?

LORD BARDOLPH.

I spake with one, my lord, that came from thence,

A gentleman well bred and of good name,

That freely render’d me these news for true.

My Lord, I spoke to someone who came from there,

a well bred gentleman of good family

who gladly told me that this news was true.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Here comes my servant Travers, whom I sent

On Tuesday last to listen after news.

Here comes my servant Travers, whom I sent

last Tuesday to discover the news.

[Enter Travers.]

LORD BARDOLPH.

My lord, I over-rode him on the way;

And he is furnish’d with no certainties

More than he haply may retail from me.

My Lord, I overtook him on the way;

he has no other news than what

I have already given you.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Now, Travers, what good tidings comes with you?

Now, Travers, what good news do you bring?

TRAVERS.

My lord, Sir John Umfrevile turn’d me back

With joyful tidings; and, being better horsed,

Out-rode me. After him came spurring hard

A gentleman, almost forspent with speed,

That stopp’d by me to breathe his bloodied horse.

He ask’d the way to Chester; and of him

I did demand what news from Shrewsbury:

He told me that rebellion had bad luck

And that young Harry Percy’s spur was cold.

With that, he gave his able horse the head,

And bending forward struck his armed heels

Against the panting sides of his poor jade

Up to the rowel-head, and starting so

He seem’d in running to devour the way,

Staying no longer question.

My Lord, Sir John Umfrevile send me back

with happy news; and, having a better horse,

he out rode me. After him a gentleman came

riding hard, almost exhausted with his speed,

who stopped next to me to rest his winded horse.

He asked the way to Chester; and I asked him

what news there was from Shrewsbury:

he told me that the rebellion had suffered misfortunes

and that young Harry Percy’s efforts had failed.

Saying that, he gave his vigourous horse its head,

and leaning forward jabbed his spurs

into the panting sides of his poor nag

up to the stops, and galloped off so fast

he seemed to be eating up the road,

he didn’t stop for me to ask any more questions.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Ha! Again:

Said he young Harry Percy’s spur was cold?

Of Hotspur Coldspur? that rebellion

Had met ill luck?

Ha! Tell me again:

he said young Harry Percy’s efforts had failed?

That Hotspur was Coldspur? That the rebellion

had suffered misfortunes?

LORD BARDOLPH.

My lord, I’ll tell you what;

If my young lord your son have not the day,

Upon mine honour, for a silken point

I’ll give my barony: never talk of it.

My lord, I’ll tell you what;

if my young lord, your son, has not won,

I’ll swap my baronetcy for a silk shoelace,

I swear it: don’t believe it.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Why should that gentleman that rode by Travers

Give then such instances of loss?

Then why should the gentleman who rode past Travers

say the battle was lost?

LORD BARDOLPH.

Who, he?

He was some hilding fellow that had stolen

The horse he rode on, and, upon my life,

Spoke at a venture. Look, here comes more news.

Who was he?

Some worthless fellow who had stolen

the horse he was riding, and, I swear,

was just guessing. Look, here comes more news.

[Enter Morton.]

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Yea, this man’s brow, like to a title-leaf,

Foretells the nature of a tragic volume:

So looks the strand whereon the imperious flood

Hath left a witness’d usurpation.

Say, Morton, didst thou come from Shrewsbury?

I can read this man’s face like a title page,

telling of the tragic story to follow:

his brow is furrowed like a beach

which has been battered by the waves of the storm.

Tell me, Morton, did you come from Shrewsbury?

MORTON. I ran from Shrewsbury, my noble lord;

Where hateful death put on his ugliest mask

To fright our party.

I ran from Shrewsbury, my noble Lord;

where horrible death had shown his worst

face, to terrify our side.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

How doth my son and brother?

Thou tremblest; and the whiteness in thy cheek

Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand.

Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless,

So dull, so dread in look, so woe-begone,

Drew Priam’s curtain in the dead of night,

And would have told him half his Troy was burnt;

But Priam found the fire ere he his tongue,

And I my Percy’s death ere thou report’st it.

This thou wouldst say: "Your son did thus and thus;

Your brother thus: so fought the noble Douglas:"

Stopping my greedy ear with their bold deeds:

But in the end, to stop my ear indeed,

Thou hast a sigh to blow away this praise,

Ending with Brother, son, and all are dead.

How are my son and brother?

You’re shaking; the paleness of your cheeks

tell me what’s happened better than speech could.

You are like the man, so faint, so lacking in spirit,

so dull, with such a terrible look, so sad,

who drew back Priam’s curtain in the dead of night,

and was going to tell him that half of Troy had burnt down;

but Priam guessed about the fire before he was told,

and I can guess the death of my Percy before you report it.

You’re going to say this: "your son did this and that;

your brother did this: this is how the noble Douglas fought:"

filling my greedy ears up with their great deeds:

but in the end my ears will certainly be blocked,

with words which will make me forget all this praise,

you shall end with, Brother, son and everyone else are dead.

MORTON.

Douglas is living, and your brother, yet:

But, for my lord your son,--

Douglas is alive, and so is your brother:

but as for my lord your son–

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Why, he is dead.

See what a ready tongue suspicion hath!

He that but fears the thing he would not know

Hath by instinct knowledge from others’ eyes

That what he fear’d is chanced. Yet speak, Morton;

Tell thou an earl his divination lies,

And I will take it as a sweet disgrace

And make thee rich for doing me such wrong.

Why, he is dead.

See how quickly suspicion speaks to us!

Someone who is frightened by something he doesn’t want to know

can instinctively pick up the news from the eyes of others

that tell him what he feared has happened. But speak, Morton;

tell this earl that his guess is wrong,

and I will be delighted to be proved so

and I shall make you rich for contradicting me.

MORTON.

You are too great to be by me gainsaid:

Your spirit is too true, your fears too certain.

You are too great for me to contradict you:

with your fine intuition you have guessed right.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Yet, for all this, say not that Percy’s dead.

I see a strange confession in thine eye;

Thou shakest thy head and hold’st it fear or sin

To speak a truth. If he be slain, say so;

The tongue offends not that reports his death:

And he doth sin that doth belie the dead,

Not he which says the dead is not alive.

Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news

Hath but a losing office, and his tongue

Sounds ever after as a sullen bell,

Remember’d tolling a departing friend.

Yet in spite of this, don’t say that Percys is dead.

I can see some strange feeling in your eyes; you are

shaking your head and think it would be wrong

to tell me the truth. If he has been killed, say so;

there is no wrong in telling of his death:

it’s a sin to try and cover up death,

not to say that the dead are no longer alive.

But it’s a thankless task to be the first

bringer of unwelcome news, his voice

will always be remembered afterwards like the sound

of the funeral bell tolling for a lost friend.

LORD BARDOLPH.

I cannot think, my lord, your son is dead.

My lord, I cannot believe that your son is dead.

MORTON.

I am sorry I should force you to believe

That which I would to God I had not seen;

But these mine eyes saw him in bloody state,

Rendering faint quittance, wearied and outbreathed,

To Harry Monmouth; whose swift wrath beat down

The never-daunted Percy to the earth,

From whence with life he never more sprung up.

In few, his death, whose spirit lent a fire

Even to the dullest peasant in his camp,

Being bruited once, took fire and heat away

From the best-temper’d courage in his troops;

For from his metal was his party steel’d;

Which once in him abated, all the rest

Turn’d on themselves, like dull and heavy lead:

And as the thing that’s heavy in itself,

Upon enforcement flies with greatest speed,

So did our men, heavy in Hotspur’s loss,

Lend to this weight such lightness with their fear

That arrows fled not swifter toward their aim

Than did our soldiers, aiming at their safety,

Fly from the field. Then was that noble Worcester

Too soon ta’en prisoner; and that furious Scot,

The bloody Douglas, whose well-labouring sword

Had three times slain the appearance of the king,

‘Gan vail his stomach and did grace the shame

Of those that turn’d their backs, and in his flight,

Stumbling in fear, was took. The sum of all

Is that the king hath won, and hath sent out

A speedy power to encounter you, my lord,

Under the conduct of young Lancaster

And Westmoreland. This is the news at full.

I am sorry to have to force you to believe

something which I wish to God I hadn’t seen;

but I saw him covered in blood with my own eyes,

fighting weakly, exhausted and out of breath,

with Harry Monmouth, whose fierce anger smashed

the brave Percy down onto the ground,

from where he never got up alive.

To be brief, the death of the one whose spirit emboldened

even the dullest peasant in his army,

once it was spread around, took all the passion out of

even his most courageous troops:

his forces took their courage from him,

and once he was gone, all the rest

immediately lost that courage:

and when something becomes heavy with fear

the fear takes full control,

and so our men, heavy with the loss of Hotspur,

became so light with their fear

that arrows didn’t fly quicker towards their target

than our soldiers, looking for safety,

ran from the battlefield. Then the noble Worcester

was quickly captured, and that furious Scot,

bloody Douglas, whose energetic sword

had killed three men who looked like the King,

began to lose his courage, and copied

those who were shamefully fleeing, and in his flight,

stumbling with fear, he was captured. To sum up,

the King has won, and has sent

a swiftly moving force to fight you, my lord,

under the leadership of young Lancaster

and Westmorland. This is all the news.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

For this I shall have time enough to mourn.

In poison there is physic; and these news,

Having been well, that would have made me sick,

Being sick, have in some measure made me well:

And as the wretch, whose fever-weaken’d joints,

Like strengthless hinges, buckle under life,

Impatient of his fit, breaks like a fire

Out of his keeper’s arms, even so my limbs,

Weaken’d with grief, being now enraged with grief,

Are thrice themselves. Hence, therefore, thou nice crutch!

A scaly gauntlet now with joints of steel

Must glove this hand: and hence, thou sickly quoif!

Thou art a guard too wanton for the head

Which princes, flesh’d with conquest, aim to hit.

Now bind my brows with iron; and approach

The ragged’st hour that time and spite dare bring

To frown upon the enraged Northumberland!

Let heaven kiss earth! now let not Nature’s hand

Keep the wild flood confined! let order die!

And let this world no longer be a stage

To feed contention in a lingering act;

But let one spirit of the first-born Cain

Reign in all bosoms, that, each heart being set

On bloody courses, the rude scene may end,

And darkness be the burier of the dead!

There will be time enough for me to mourn this.

There is medicine in poison; this news,

which would have made me sick if I was well,

as I’m sick, it has to some extent made me well.

Like the wretch whose joints have been weakened by illness,

so that they collapse under the strain like

feeble hinges,

who suddenly erupts like a fire out of

his nurse’s arms, so my limbs,

weakened by grief, are now made furious with grief,

and have three times their strength. So away with you, unmanly crutch!

A gauntlet of mail with steel joints

must be the glove for this hand: off with you, invalid’s nightcap!

You are too effeminate a protection for a head

which Princes, eager for conquest, want to hit.

Put a helmet on my head, and let’s take on

this rough time that spitefulness brings

to bring sorrow to the angry Northumberland!

Let heaven fall down to earth! Don’t let nature

hold back the wild flood! Let all order die!

Don’t let this world remain as a stage

where disputes are long drawn out things;

let the spirit of Cain

live in all hearts, so that with everyone being

set on bloody actions the world can come to an end

and darkness will bury the dead!

TRAVERS.

This strained passion doth you wrong, my lord.

These hysterical outbursts show you’re not yourself, my lord.

LORD BARDOLPH.

Sweet earl, divorce not wisdom from your honour.

Sweet Earl, do not separate your wisdom and your honour.

MORTON.

The lives of all your loving complices

Lean on your health; the which, if you give o’er

To stormy passion, must perforce decay.

You cast the event of war, my noble lord,

And summ’d the account of chance, before you said

Let us make head. It was your presurmise,

That, in the dole of blows, your son might drop:

You knew he walk’d o’er perils, on an edge,

More likely to fall in than to get o’er;

You were advised his flesh was capable

Of wounds and scars and that his forward spirit

Would lift him where most trade of danger ranged:

Yet did you say Go forth; and none of this,

Though strongly apprehended, could restrain

The stiff-borne action: what hath then befallen,

Or what hath this bold enterprise brought forth,

More than that being which was like to be?

The lives of all your loving confederates

are depending on you; if you give in

to uncontrolled passion, you will become ill.

You weighed up the reasons for war, my noble lord,

and assessed what the chances were, before you said

Let us begin. You knew there was a chance

that in the battle your son might fall:

you knew he was walking through danger, on a knife edge,

more likely to fall than to succeed;

you knew that it was possible he would receive

wounds and scars and that his bravery

would place him in the most dangerous places.

But you still said, Go on; and none of your

fears, however strongly you felt them, could stop

you from ordering the action. So what has happened,

what have these events brought forth,

more than what you expected?

LORD BARDOLPH.

We all that are engaged to this loss

Knew that we ventured on such dangerous seas

That if we wrought out life ‘twas ten to one;

And yet we ventured, for the gain proposed

Choked the respect of likely peril fear’d;

And since we are o’erset, venture again.

Come, we will put forth, body and goods.

We who participated in this loss

knew that we were taking such a great risk

that the odds of us surviving were ten to one;

and yet we still did it, for the possible gains

outweighed our fear of the likely dangers;

and since we have been beaten, let’s try again.

Come, we’ll set out again, risking our bodies and our wealth.

MORTON.

‘Tis more than time: and, my most noble lord,

I hear for certain, and dare speak the truth:

The gentle Archbishop of York is up

With well-appointed powers: he is a man

Who with a double surety binds his followers.

My lord your son had only but the corpse,

But shadows and the shows of men, to fight;

For that same word, rebellion, did divide

The action of their bodies from their souls;

And they did fight with queasiness, constrain’d,

As men drink potions, that their weapons only

Seem’d on our side; but, for their spirits and souls,

This word, rebellion, it had froze them up,

As fish are in a pond. But now the bishop

Turns insurrection to religion:

Supposed sincere and holy in his thoughts,

He ‘s follow’d both with body and with mind;

And doth enlarge his rising with the blood

Of fair King Richard, scraped from Pomfret stones;

Derives from heaven his quarrel and his cause;

Tells them he doth bestride a bleeding land,

Gasping for life under great Bolingbroke;

And more and less do flock to follow him.

It’s well past time to do it: and, my most noble lord,

I hear that this is definitely true so I shall say it:

the noble Archbishop of York is rebelling

and has strong forces: he is a man

who has a double hold over his followers.

My lord your son had only the bodies of men

in his forces, just the shadows of them without souls;

for the very word, rebellion, divorced

the actions of their bodies from their souls;

they were unwilling to fight, they did it because they had to,

the same way men take medicine, we only had their weapons

on our side; as for their spirits and souls,

this word, rebellion, had frozen them up,

like fish in a pond. But now the Bishop

has turned rebellion into religion;

as he is thought to be sincere and holy in his thoughts,

he is followed with both body and mind,

and he is gaining followers inspired by

the blood of fair King Richard, scraped from the stones of Pomfret Castle;

his argument and his actions are inspired by heaven;

he tells men that the whole country is bleeding,

gasping for life under the rule of great Bolingbroke;

and both high and low are rushing to follow him.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

I knew of this before; but, to speak truth,

This present grief had wiped it from my mind.

Go in with me; and counsel every man

The aptest way for safety and revenge:

Get posts and letters, and make friends with speed:

Never so few, and never yet more need.

I knew about this before; but, to tell the truth,

my recent grief had wiped it from my mind.

Come inside with me; advise everyone

the best way to take revenge and gain our safety:

get couriers, write letters, as quick as you can:

there were never so few people, and we never needed them more.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE II. London. A street.

[Enter Falstaff, with his Page bearing his sword and buckler.]

FALSTAFF.

Sirrah, you giant, what says the doctor to my water?

Sir, you giant, what does the doctor say about my urine?

PAGE.

He said, sir, the water itself was a good healthy water; but,

for the party that owed it, he might have moe diseases than he

knew for.

He said, sir, that it was good healthy urine in itself; but,

for the person who gave it, he might have more diseases than

he had ever heard of.

FALSTAFF.

Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at me: the brain of

this foolish-compounded clay, man, is not able to invent any thing

that tends to laughter, more than I invent or is invented on me:

I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men.

I do here walk before thee like a sow that hath overwhelmed all her

litter but one.

If the prince put thee into my service for any other reason than to

set me off, why then I have no judgement. Thou whoreson mandrake, thou

art fitter to be worn in my cap than to wait at my heels. I was never

manned with an agate till now: but I will inset you neither in gold nor

silver, but in vile apparel, and send you back again to your master, for

a jewel,--the juvenal, the prince your master, whose chin is not yet

fledged. I will sooner have a beard grow in the palm of my hand than he

shall get one on his cheek; and yet he will not stick to say his face is

a face-royal: God may finish it when he will, ‘tis not a hair amiss yet:

he may keep it still at a face-royal, for a barber shall never earn

sixpence out of it; and yet he’ll be crowing as if he had writ man ever

since his father was a bachelor. He may keep his own grace, but he’s

almost out of mine, I can assure him. What said Master Dombledon about

the satin for my short cloak and my slops?

Every sort of man enjoys mocking me. The brain

of this foolish lump of clay, man, can’t

invent anything that causes more laughter than I

cause

or that’s caused onmy account; I’m not only witty

myself, but I make other men be witty also. You

see me now like a sow who has crushed

all her litter but one. If the Prince gave me you

as my servant for any other reason than to make

an amusing contrast, I have no judgement. You confounded

midget, you’re more suited to be a badge on my cap than

to serve me. I never wore a cameo brooch before,

but I will make one out of you, not in gold or

silver but in some low stuff, and I shall send you back

to your master as a brooch–that juvenile

Prince your master, who hasn’t even grown a beard yet. I

am more likely to grow a beard in the palm of my

hand than he is to get one on his cheek; and yet he

doesn’t hesitate to say that he has a royal face. God may

finish it when he wants, it hasn’t got the hair on it yet. He

may keep it as a pricey coin for a barber will never

make sixpence shaving it. And yet he swaggers about

as if he had been a man since his father was a

bachelor. He can offer his favours to whom he likes,

I can assure him he won’t get any of mine. What did master

Dommelton say about the satin for my short cloak and

my breeches?

PAGE.

He said, sir, you should procure him better assurance than Bardolph:

he would not take his bond and yours; he liked not the security.

He said, sir, that you should give him better guarantees of payment than Bardolph:

he wouldn’t take his word or yours; he didn’t like the security.

FALSTAFF.

Let him be damned, like the glutton! pray God his tongue be hotter!

A whoreson Achitophel! a rascally yea-forsooth knave! to bear a

gentleman in hand, and then stand upon security! The whoreson

smooth-pates do now wear nothing but high shoes, and bunches of keys

at their girdles; and if a man is through with them in honest taking

up, then they must stand upon security. I had as lief they would

put ratsbane in my mouth as offer to stop it with security.

I looked ‘a should have sent me two and twenty yards of satin, as I

am a true knight, and he sends me security. Well, he may sleep in

security; for he hath the horn of abundance, and the lightness of

his wife shines through it: and yet cannot he see, though he have his

own lanthorn to light him. Where’s Bardolph?

Let him be dammed to hell like the glutton! Please God let his tongue