Manent Prince Henry and Falstaff.

Fal. Hal, if thou fee me down in the battel, and beftride me, fo; 'tis a point of friendship.

P. Henry. Nothing but a Coloffus can do thee that friendship: Say thy prayers, and farewel.

Fal. I would it were bed-time, Hal, and all well. P. Henry. Why, thou oweft heav'n a death.

Fal. 'Tis not due yet: I would be loth to pay him before his day. What need I be fo forward with him that calls not on me? well, 'tis no matter, honour pricks me on. But how if honour prick me off, when I come on? how then? can honour fet to a leg? no: or an arm? no: or take away the grief of a wound? no: honour hath no skill in furgery then? no. What is honour? a word. What is that word honour? Air ' a trim Reckoning. -Who hath it? he that dy'd a Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no. Is it infenfible then? yea, to the dead: but will it 'not live with the living? no: why? Detraction will 'not fuffer it. Therefore, I'll none of it; honour ' is a meer fcutcheon, and fo ends my catechifm. [Exit.

SCE NE III.

Changes to Percy's Camp.

Enter Worcester, and Sir Richard Vernon. Wor.. No, my nephew muft not know, Sir Richard, The liberal kind offer of the King.

Ver. 'Twere best, he did.

I honour is a meer fcutcheon,] This is very fine. The reward of brave actions formerly was only fome honourable bearing in the fhields of arms bestow'd upon defervers. But Falstaff having faid that honour often came not till after death, he calls it very wittily a fcutcheon, which is the painted heraldry born in funeral proceffions. And by meer fcutcheon is infinuated, that whether alive or dead, honour was but a name.

Wor.

Wor. Then we are all undone.
It is not poffible, it cannot be,

The King fhou'd keep his word in loving us ;
He will fufpect us still, and find a time
To punish this offence in other faults:
Sufpicion, all our lives, shall be stuck full of eyes;
For treason is but trusted like a Fox,
Who ne'er so tame, fo cherish'd, and lock'd up,
Will have a wild trick of his ancestors.
Look how we can, or fad, or merrily,
Interpretation will mifquote our looks;
And we fhall feed like Oxen at a stall,
The better cherish'd, ftill the nearer death.
My nephew's trefpafs may be well forgot,
It hath th' excufe of youth and heat of blood;
And an adopted name of privilege,

A hair-brain'd Hot-fpur, govern'd by a Spleen:
All his Offences live upon my head,

And on his father's. We did train him on;
And his corruption, being ta'en from us,
We as the spring of all, fhall pay for all.
Therefore, good coufin, let not Harry know,
In any cafe the offer of the King.

Ver. Deliver what you will, I'll fay, 'tis fo.
Here comes your coufin.

Enter Hot-fpur and Dowglas.

Hot. My uncle is return'd:

Deliver up my lord of Westmorland.

Uncle, what news?

Wor. The King will bid you battle presently. Dowg. Defie him by the the lord of Westmorland.

z And his corruption being ta'en from us,] Perhaps Shakespear being a taint. i. e. infection.

wrote,

Hot.

Hot. Lord Dowglas, go you then and tell him fo. Dowg. Marry, I fhall; and very willingly. [Exit Dowglas. Wor. There is no feeming mercy in the King. Hot. Did you beg any? God forbid! Wor. I told him gently of our grievances, Of his oath-breaking; which he mended thus, By now forfwearing that he is forfworn. He calls us rebels, traitors, and will scourge With haughty arms this hateful name in us. Enter Dowglas.

Dowg. Arm, gentlemen, to arms; for I have thrown A brave defiance in King Henry's teeth;

And Westmorland, that was ingag'd, did bear it
Which cannot chufe but bring him quickly on,

Wor. The Prince of Wales ftept forth before the King, And, Nephew, challeng'd you to fingle fight.

Hot. O, would the quarrel lay upon our heads, And that no man might draw fhort breath to day, But I and Harry Monmouth! Tell me, tell me, How fhew'd his talking? feem'd it in contempt Ver. No, by my foul: I never in my life Did hear a challenge urg'd more modeftly, Unless a brother fhould a brother dare, To gentle exercife and proof of arms. He gave you all the duties of a man, Trim'd up your praifes with a princely tongue, Spoke your defervings like a chronicle, Making you ever better than his Praife: ['By ftill difpraifing Praife, valued with You.] And, which became him like a Prince indeed, He made a blufhing cital of himself,

3 By fill difpraifing Praife, valued with You.]. This foolish line is indeed in the Folio of 1623, but it is evidently the players' nonfenfe.

4 He made a blushing cital of himself.] Citalfer taxation.

Mr. Pope.

And

And chid his truant youth with fuch a grace,
As if he master'd there a double fpirit,
Of teaching, and of learning, inftantly.
There did he paufe; But let me tell the world,
If he out-live the envy of this day,
England did never owe fo fweet a hope,
So much misconstrued in his wantonnefs.
Hot. Coufin, I think, thou art enamoured
Upon his Follies; never did I hear
Of any Prince, fo wild, at liberty.
But be he as he will, yet once ere night,
I will embrace him with a foldier's arm,
That he fhall fhrink under my courtefie.

Arm, arm with speed. And fellows, foldiers, friends,
Better confider what you have to do,

Than I, that have not well the gift of tongue,

Can lift your blood up with perfuafion.

Melf. My lord, here are letters for you.
Hot. I cannot read them now.

O Gentlemen, the time of life is short:
To spend that shortnefs bafely were too long,
Tho' life did ride upon a dial's point,
Still ending at th' arrival of an hour.
And if we live, we live to tread on Kings:
If die; brave death, when Princes die with us!
Now, for our confciences, the arms are fair,
When the intent for bearing them is juft.

Enter another Messenger.

Mell. My lord, prepare, the King comes on apace. Hot. I thank him, that he cuts me from my tale, For I profefs not talking: only this,

Let each man do his best. And here draw I

A

A fword, whofe temper I intend to stain
With the best blood that I can meet withal,
In the adventure of this perilous day.
Now, Efperanza! Percy! and fet on:
Sound all the lofty Inftruments of war;
And by that mufick let us all embrace:
'For (heav'n to earth) fome of us never fhall-
A fecond time do fuch a courtefie.

[They embrace, then exeunt. The Trumpets found.

The King entreth with his Power; Alarm to the battle. Then enter Dowglas, and Sir Walter Blunt.

Blunt. What is thy name, that thus in battle crossest me?

What honour doft thou feek upon my head?

Dowg. Know then, my name is Dowglas, And I do haunt thee in the battle thus, Because fome tell me that thou art a King. Blunt. They tell thee true.

Dowg. The lord of Stafford dear to day hath bought Thy likeness; for instead of thee, King Harry, This sword hath ended him; fo fhall it thee, Unless thou yield thee as my prifoner.

Blunt. I was not born to yield, thou haughty Scot, And thou shalt find a King that will revenge Lord Stafford's death.

Fight, Blunt is flain: then enter Hot-fpur.

Hot. O Dowglas, hadft thou fought at Holmedon thus, I never had triumphed o'er a Scot.

5 Now, Efperanza! This was the word of battle on Percy's fide. See Hall's Chronicle, folio 22. Mr. Pope.

6 For (heav'n to earth)] i. e. one might wager heaven to

earth.

Dowg.