prithee, 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! Prince Thou art perfect. Poins Francis! Exit Poins. Enter Francis. Francis Anon, anon, sir. Look down into the Pomgarnet, Ralph. Prince Come hither, Francis. Francis My lord? Prince How long hast thou to serve, Francis? Francis Forsooth, five years, and as much as to⁠— Poins Within. Francis! Francis Anon, anon, sir. Prince Five year! by’r lady, a long lease for the clinking of pewter. But, Francis, darest thou be so valiant as to play the coward with thy indenture and show it a fair pair of heels and run from it? Francis O Lord, sir, I’ll be sworn upon all the books in England, I could find in my heart. Poins Within. Francis! Francis Anon, sir. Prince How old art thou, Francis? Francis Let me see⁠—about Michaelmas next I shall be⁠— Poins Within. Francis! Francis Anon, sir. Pray stay a little, my lord. Prince Nay, but hark you, Francis: for the sugar thou gavest me, ’twas a pennyworth, wast’t not? Francis O Lord, I would it had been two! Prince I will give thee for it a thousand pound: ask me when thou wilt, and thou shalt have it. Poins Within. Francis! Francis Anon, anon. Prince Anon, Francis? No, Francis; but to-morrow, Francis; or, Francis, o’ Thursday; or indeed, Francis, when thou wilt. But, Francis! Francis My lord? Prince Wilt thou rob this leathern jerkin, crystal-button, not-pated, agate-ring, puke-stocking, caddis-garter, smooth-tongue, Spanish-pouch⁠— Francis O Lord, sir, who do you mean? Prince 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. Francis What, sir? Poins Within. Francis! Prince Away, you rogue! dost thou not hear them call? Here they both call him; the drawer stands amazed, not knowing which way to go. Enter Vintner. Vintner What, standest thou still, and hearest such a calling? 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? Prince Let them alone awhile, and then open the door. Exit Vintner. Poins! Re-enter Poins. Poins Anon, anon, sir. Prince 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 you made with this jest of the drawer? come, what’s the issue? Prince 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. Re-enter Francis. What’s o’clock, Francis? Francis Anon, anon, sir. Exit. Prince That ever this fellow should have fewer words than a parrot, and yet the son of a woman! His industry is upstairs and downstairs; 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 to-day?” “Give my roan horse a drench,” says he; and answers “some fourteen,” an hour after; “a trifle, a trifle.” I prithee, 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, and Peto; Francis following with wine. Poins Welcome, Jack: where hast thou been? Falstaff A plague of all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too! marry, and amen! Give me a cup of sack, boy. Ere I lead this life long, I’ll sew nether stocks and mend them and foot them too. A plague of all cowards! Give me a cup of sack, rogue. Is there no virtue extant? He drinks. Prince Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of butter? pitiful-hearted Titan, that melted at the sweet tale of the sun’s! if thou didst, then behold that compound. Falstaff You rogue, here’s lime in this sack too: there is nothing but roguery to be found in villanous man: yet a coward is worse than a cup of sack with lime in it. A villanous coward! Go thy ways, old Jack; die when thou wilt, if manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I a shotten herring. There live not three good men unhanged in England; and one of them is fat and grows old: God help the while! a bad world, I say. I would I were a weaver; I could sing psalms or any thing. A plague of all cowards, I say still. Prince How now, wool-sack! what mutter you? Falstaff A king’s son! If I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy subjects afore thee like a flock of wild-geese, I’ll never wear hair on my face more. You Prince of Wales! Prince Why, you whoreson round man, what’s the matter? Falstaff Are not you a coward? answer me to that: and Poins there? Poins ’Zounds, ye fat paunch, an ye call me coward, by the Lord, I’ll stab thee. Falstaff I call thee coward! I’ll see thee damned ere I call thee coward: but I would give a thousand pound I could run as fast as thou canst. You are straight enough in the shoulders, you care not who sees your back: call you that backing of your friends? A plague upon such backing! give me them that will face me. Give me a cup of sack: I am a rogue, if I drunk to-day. Prince O villain! thy lips are scarce wiped since thou drunkest last. Falstaff All’s one for that. He drinks. A plague of all cowards, still say I. Prince What’s