Henry IV, Part 1: Act 2

Poor jade is wrung in the withers out of all cess.

Poor jade is wrung in the withers out of all cess.

I am joined with no foot-land-rakers, no long-staff sixpenny strikers, none of these mad mustachio purple-hued malt-worms, but with nobility and tranquillity, burgomasters and great oneyers, such as can hold in, such as will strike sooner than speak, and speak sooner than drink, and drink sooner than pray, and yet, zounds, I lie, for they pray continually to their saint the commonwealth, or rather not pray to her but prey on her, for they ride up and down on her and make her their boots.

Farewell, you muddy knave.

’Sblood, I’ll not bear my own flesh so far afoot again for all the coin in thy father’s Exchequer.

An the Prince and Poins be not two arrant cowards, there’s no equity stirring.

Why, my Lord of York commends the plot and the general course of the action.

What a pagan rascal is this—an infidel!

O, I could divide myself and go to buffets for moving such a dish of skim milk with so honorable an action!

And thou hast talked
Of sallies and retires, of trenches, tents,
Of palisadoes, frontiers, parapets,
Of basilisks, of cannon, culverin,
Of prisoners’ ransom, and of soldiers slain,
And all the currents of a heady fight.

And thou hast talked
Of sallies and retires, of trenches, tents,
Of palisadoes, frontiers, parapets,
Of basilisks, of cannon, culverin,
Of prisoners’ ransom, and of soldiers slain,
And all the currents of a heady fight.

And thou hast talked
Of sallies and retires, of trenches, tents,
Of palisadoes, frontiers, parapets,
Of basilisks, of cannon, culverin,
Of prisoners’ ransom, and of soldiers slain,
And all the currents of a heady fight.

O, what portents are these?
Some heavy business hath my lord in hand,
And I must know it, else he loves me not.

A weasel hath not such a deal of spleen
As you are tossed with.

Away, you trifler. Love, I love thee not.
I care not for thee, Kate. This is no world
To play with mammets and to tilt with lips.

But hark you, Kate,
I must not have you henceforth question me
Whither I go, nor reason whereabout.

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.

Step aside, and I’ll show thee a precedent.

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: Anon, anon.
PRINCE: Anon, Francis? No, Francis. But tomorrow, Francis; or, Francis, o’ Thursday; or indeed, Francis, when thou wilt.

Why then, your brown bastard is your only drink, for look you, Francis, your white canvas doublet will sully.

Why then, your brown bastard is your only drink, for look you, Francis, your white canvas doublet will sully.

His industry is upstairs and downstairs, his eloquence the parcel of a reckoning.

A plague of all cowards!—Give me a cup of sack, rogue!—Is there no virtue extant?

I made me no more ado, but took all their seven points in my target, thus.

These lies are like their father that begets them, gross as a mountain, open, palpable.

These lies are like their father that begets them, gross as a mountain, open, palpable.

This sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horse-backbreaker, this huge hill of flesh—

And, Falstaff, you carried your guts away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity,
and roared for mercy, and still run and roared, as ever I heard bull-calf.

Shall we have a play extempore?

What think you they portend?

Here comes lean Jack. Here comes bare-bone.—How now, my sweet creature of bombast? How long is ’t ago, Jack, since thou sawest thine own knee?

That same mad fellow of the north, Percy, and he of Wales that gave Amamon the bastinado, and made Lucifer cuckold, and swore the devil his true liegeman upon the cross of a Welsh hook—what a plague call you him?

Well, thou wilt be horribly chid tomorrow when thou comest to thy father.

That thou art my son I have partly thy mother’s word, partly my own opinion, but chiefly a villainous trick of thine eye and a foolish hanging of thy nether lip that doth warrant me.

This pitch, as ancient writers do report, doth defile; so doth the company thou keepest.

A goodly portly man, i’ faith, and a corpulent; of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage, and, as I think, his age some fifty, or, by ’r Lady, inclining to threescore; and now I remember me, his name is Falstaff.

Why dost thou converse with that
trunk of humors, that bolting-hutch of beastliness,
that swollen parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard
of sack, that stuffed cloakbag of guts, that roasted
Manningtree ox with the pudding in his belly, that
reverend Vice, that gray iniquity, that father ruffian,
that vanity in years?

Go hide thee behind the arras.

And so let me entreat you leave the house.