.

measure the not the Capacities of us that are young; you heat of our Livers, with the bitterness of your Galls; and we that are in the vaward of our Youth, I must confefs, are Wags too.

Ch. Juft. Do you fet down your Name in the Scrowl of Youth, that are written down old, with all the Characters of Age? Have you not a moift Eye? a dry Hand? a yellow Cheek? a white Beard? a decreafing Leg? an inyour Wind creafing Belly? is not your Voice broken? about blafted fhort? your Wit fingle? and every part with Antiquity? and will you call your felf young? fie, fie, fie, Sir John.

you

Fal, My Lord, I was born with a white Head, and fomething a round Belly. For my Voice, I have loft it with hollowing and finging of Anthems. To approve my Youth further, I will not. The truth is, I am only old in Judgment and Understanding, and he that will caper with me for a thousand Marks, let him lend me the Mony, and have at him. For the Box o'th' Ear that the Prince gave you, he gave it like a rude Prince, and you took it like a fenfible Lord. I have checkt him for it, and the young Lion repents: Marry not in Ashes and Sack-cloth, but in new Silk, and old Sack.

Ch. Juft. Well, Heav'n fend the Prince a better Compapanion.

Fal. Heav'n fend the Companion a better Prince: I can not rid my Hands of him.

Ch. Juft. Well, the King hath fever'd you and Prince Harry, I hear you are going with Lord John of Lancafter, against the Archbishop, and the Earl of Northumberland.

Fal

Yes, I thank

your pretty fweet Wit for it; but look all you you pray, that kifs my Lady Peace at home, that our Armies join not in a hot Day: For I take but two Shirts out with me, and I mean not to fweat extraordinarily: If it be a hot Day, if I brandifh any thing but my Bottle, would I might never spit white again. There is not a dangerous Action can peep out his Head, but I am thrust upon it. Well, I cannot laft ever.

Ch. Juft.

Ch. Juft. Well, be honest, be honest, and Heav'n blefs your Expedition.

Fal. Will your Lordship lend me a thousand Pound, to furnish me forth?

Ch. Juft. Not a Penny, not a Penny; you are too impa Fare you well. Commend me to

tient to bear Croffes. my Coufin Westmorland. [Exit. Fal. If I do, fillop me with a three-man-Beetle. A Man can no more separate Age and Covetoufnefs, than he can part young Limbs and Letchery: But the Gout galls the one, and the Pox pinches the other, and fo both the Degrees prevent my Curfes. Boy.

Page. Sir.

Fal. What Mony is in my Purfe?
Page. Seven Groats, and two Pence.

Fal. I can get no Remedy against this Confumption of the Purfe. Borrowing only lingers, and lingers it out, but the Disease is incurable. Go bear this Letter to my Lord of Lancaster, this to the Prince, this to the Earl of Weftmorland, and this to old Mistress Urfula, whom I have weekly fworn to marry, fince I perceiv'd the firft white Hair on my Chin. About it; you know where to find me. A Pox of this Gout, or a Gout of this Pox; for the one or th'other plays the Rogue with my great Toe : It is no matter, if I do halt, I have the Wars for my Colour, and my Pension shall seem the more reasonable: A good Wit will make use of any thing; I will turn Diseases to commodity. [Exeunt.

Enter Arch Bishop of York, Haftings, Mowbray, and Lord Bardolph.

York. Thus have you heard our Cafes, and know our

And my moft noble Friends, I pray you all

Speak plainly your Opinions of our Hopes,
And firft, Lord Marfhal, what fay you to it?
Mow. I well allow the occafion of our Arms,

But gladly would be better satisfied,

[Means:

How, in our Means, we should advance our selves,

To

To look with Forehead bold and big enough,'
Upon the
e Power and Puiffance of the King?
Haft. Our prefent Mufters grow upon the File
To five and twenty thousand Men of choice:
And our Supplies live largely in the Hope

Of

great Northumberland, whofe Bofom burns With an incenfed Fire of Injuries.

Bard. The question then, Lord Haftings, ftandeth thus,
Whether our prefent five and twenty thousand
May hold up Head without Northumberland ?
Haft. With him we may.

Bard. Ay marry there's the point:
But if without him we be thought too feeble,
My Judgment is, we fhould not ftep too far
'Till we had his Affiftance by the Hand.
For in a Thearn so bloody fac'd as this,
Conjecture, Expectation, and Surmife
Of Aids uncertain, fhould not be admitted.
York. 'Tis true, Lord Bardolph, for indeed
It was young Hot fpur's Cale at Shrewsbury.

Bard. It was, my Lord, who lin'd himself with hope, Eating the Air, on promife of Supply,

Flattering himself with Project of a Power,

Much smaller than the smalleft of his Thoughts,
And fo, with great Imagination,

Proper to Madmen, led his Powers to Death,
And, winking, leap'd into Destruction.

Haft. But, by your leave, it never yet did hurt,
To lay down likelihoods, and forms of Hope.
Bard. Yes, if this prefent quality of War,
Indeed the inftant Action, a Caufe on foot,
Lives fo in hope, as in an early Spring
We fee th' appearing Buds, which to prove Fruit,
Hope gives not fo much warrant, as Despair

That Frofts will bite them. When we mean to build,

We first furvey the Plot, then draw the Model,
And when we see the figure of the House,
Then must we rate the Coft of the Erection,
Which if we find out-weighs Ability,

What do we then, but draw a-new the Model

In fewer Offices? or at least, defift

To build at all? Much more, in this great Work,
Which is, almoft, to pluck a Kingdom down,
And fet another up, fhould we furvey
The Plot of Situation, and the Model,
Confent upon a fure Foundation,
Queftion Surveyors, know our own Estate,
How able fuch a Work to undergo,
To weigh against his Oppofite? or else,
We fortifie in Paper, and in Figures,
Ufing the Names of Men, instead of Men:
Like one that draws the Model of a House
Beyond his Power to build it; who, half through,
Gives o'er, and leaves his part-created Coft
A naked fubject to the weeping Clouds,

And wafte, for churlish Winters tyranny.

Haft. Grant that our Hopes, yet likely of fair Birth," Should be ftill-born; and that we now poffeft The utmost Man of Expectation:

I think we are a Body ftrong enough,

Even as we are, to equal with the King.

Bard. What, is the King but five and twenty thousand ? Haft. To us no more; nay not fo much, Lord Bardolph.

For his Divifions, as the Times do brawl,

Are in three Heads; one Power against the French,
And one against Glendower; perforce a third

Muft take up us: So is the unfirm King

In three divided; and his Coffers found

With hollow Poverty, and Emptiness.

York. That he should draw his feveral Strengths together, And come against us in full Puiffance, Need not be dreaded.

Haft. If he fhould do so,

He leaves his Back unarm'd, the French, and Welfh

Baying him at the Heels; never fear that.

Bard. Who is it like fhould lead his Forces hither?
Haft. The Duke of Lancaßer and Westmorland:

Against the Welsh, himself and Harry Monmouth.
But who is fubftituted 'gainst the French,

I have no certain notice.

York.

Tork. Let us on:

And publifh the Occafion of our Arms.

The Commonwealth is fick of their own choice,
Their over-greedy Love hath furfeited.

An Habitation giddy and unfure

Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar Heart.
O thou fond Many! with what loud Applaufe
Did'ft thou beat Heav'n with bleffing Bullingbroke,
Before he was, what thou would'ft have him be?
And being now trim'd up in thine own Defires,
Thou, beaftly Feeder, art fo full of him,
That thou provok'ft thy felf to caft him up.
So, fo, thou common Dog, didft thou difgorge
Thy glutton-bofom of the Royal Richard,
And now thou would't eat thy dead Vomit up,
And howl'ft to find it. What truft is in these Times?
They, that when Richard liv'd, would have him die,
Are now become enamour'd on his Grave,
Thou that threw'ft Duft upon his goodly Head,
When through proud London he came fighing on,
After th' admired Heels of Bullingbroke,

Cry'ft now, O Earth yield us that King again,
And take thou this. O thoughts of Men accurs'd,
Paft, and to come, feems beft; things prefent, worst.
Mow. Shall we go draw our Numbers, and fet on?
Haft. We are Time's Subjects, and Time bids, be gone!

A CT II. SCENE I.

Enter Hoftefs, with two Officers, Fang and Snare.

R. Fang, have you entred the Action?

Hoft MR.

Fang. It is enter'd.

Hoft. Where's your Yeoman? Is it a lufty Yeoman? Will he ftand to it?

Fang. Sirrah, where's Snare?

Hoft. Ay, ay, good Mr. Snare.

Snare.