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friends; else, Sir, I did not care for mine own part so much.
Bard. Go to ; ftand aside.
Moul. And good master corporal captain, for my old Dame's-sake stand my friend : she hath no body to do any thing about her when I am gone, and she's old and cannot help herself: you shall have forty, Sir.
Bard. Go to ; ftand aside.
Feeble. I care not, a man can die but once; we owe God a death, I will never bear a base mind : if it be my destiny, fo: if it be not, so. No man is too good to serve his Prince; and let it go which way it will, he that dies this year is quit for the next.
Bard. Well said, thou art a good fellow.
Bard. Sir, a word with you:--I have three pound 'to free Mouldy and Bull-calf.
Fal. Go to: well.
chuse for me. Shal. Marry then, Mouldy, Bull-calf, Feeble, and Shadow.
Fal. Mouldy, and Bull-calf :--for you, Mou'ly, stay at home till you are past service: and for your part, Bull-calf, grow till you come unto it: I will
you. Shal. Sir John, Sir John, do not yourself wrong, they are your likeliest men, and I would have you fery'd with the best. Fal. Will you tell me, master Shallow, how to chufe
care I for the limb, the thewes, the stature, bulk and big semblance of a man? give me the spirit, master Shallow. Here's Wart; you see what a ragged appearance it is: he shall charge you and discharge you with the motion of a pewterer's hammer; come off
Put me a
and on, swifter than he that gibbets on the brewer's bucket. And this fame half-fac'd fellow Shadow, give me this man, he presents no mark to the enemy; the fo-man may with as great aim level at the edge of a pen-knife : and, for a retreat, how swiftly will this Feeble, the woman's tailor, run off? O give me the fpare men, and spare me the great ones. caliver into Wart's hand, Bardolph.
Bard. Hold, Wart, traverse; thus, thus, thus.
Fal. Come, manage me your caliver: so, very well,
h, go to, very good, exceeding good. O, give me always a litule, lean, old, chopt, bald shot. Well said, Wart, thou art a good scab: hold, there is a telter for thee.
Shal. He is not his craft-master, he doth not do it right. I remember at Mile-End Green, when I lay at Clement's Inn, I was then Sir Dagonet in Arthur's Show: there was a little quiver fellow, and he would manage you his piece thus; and he would about, and about, and come you in, and come you in : rah, tah, tah, would he fay; bounce, would he say, and away again would he go, and again would he come: I shall never see such a fellow.
Fal. These fellows will do well. Master Shallow, God keep you; farewel, master Silence. I will not use many words with you, fare you well, gentlemen both. I thank you, I must a dozen mile to night. Bardolph, give the soldiers coats.
Shal. Sir John, heaven bless you, and prosper your affairs, and send us peace. As
you return, visit my house. Let ourold acquaintance be renewed : peradventure, I will with you to the Court.
Fal. I would you would, inaster Shallow. Shal. Go to : I have spoke at a word. Fare you well.
[Èxit. Fal. Fare you well, gentle gentlemen. On, Bardolph, lead the men away. As I return, I will fetch off these Justices: I do see the bottom of Justice
Shallow. How subje&t we old men are to this Vice of lying ! this same ftarv'd Justice hath done nothing but prated to me of the wildness of his youth, and the feats he hath done about Turnbal-street; and every third word a lie, more duly paid to the hearer than the Turk's tribute. I do remember him at Clement's Inn, like a man made after supper of a cheese-paring. When he was naked, he was for all the world like a forked radish, with a head fantastically carv'd upon it with a knife. He was so forlorn, that his dimen'fions to any thick fight were invincible. the very Genius of famine, yet leacherous as a Monkey, and the whores calld him Mandrake: he came ever in the rere-ward of the fashion; and sung those tunes to the over-scutcht huswives that he heard the carmen whistle, and sware they were his Fancies, or his Good-nights. And now is this Vice's dagger be. come a Squire, and talks as familiarly of John of Gaunt as if he had been sworn brother to him: and I'll be sworn, he never saw him but once in the Tiltyard, and then he broke his head for crowding among the Marshal's men. I saw it, and told John of Gaunt he beat his own name ; for you might have truss'd him and all his apparel into an Eel-Ikin: the cafe of a treble hoboy was a Mansion for him, a Court; and now hath he land and beeves. Well, I will be acquainted with him, if I return; and it shall go hard but I will make him a philosopher's two stones to me. If the young Dace be a bait for the old Pike, I see no reason in the law of nature but I may snap at him. Let time shape, and there's an end. [Exeunt.
A CT IV.
SC EN E I.
Changes to a Forest in Yorkshire.
Enter the Archbishop of York, Mowbray, Hastings,
Haft. 'Tis Gaultree forest.
forth, To know the numbers of our enemies.
Haft. We have sent forth already.
York. 'Tis well done.
your attempts may over live the hazard And fearful meeting of their opposite. Mowb. Thus do the hopes we have in him touch
ground, And dash themselves to pieces.
Enter a Messenger. Hast. Now, what news?
Mel. Weft of this forest, scarcely off a mile, In goodly form comes on the enemy : And by the ground they hide, I judge their number Upon, or near, the rate of thirty thousand.
Mowb. The just proportion that we gave them out. Let us way on, and face them in the field.
S CE N E II.
Enter Westmorland. York. THAT well-appointed leader fronts us
here? Mowb. I thing, it is my lord Westmorland.
Weft. Health and fair Greeting from our General, The Prince, Lord John, and Duke of Lancaster.
York. Say on, my lord of Westmorland, in peace: What doth concern your coming ?
Weft. Then, my lord, Unto your
Grace do I in chief address The substance of my speech. If that Rebellion Came like itself, in base and abject routs, Led on by bloody youth; goaded with rage, And countenancd by boys and beggary; I say, if damn'd Commotion so appear'd In his true, native, and most proper shape, You, reverend Father, and these noble lords, Had not been here to dress the ugly form Of base and bloody insurrection With your fair honours. You, my lord Archbishop, Whofé See is by a civil peace maintain'd, Whose beard the silver hand of peace hath touch'd, Whose learning and good letters peace hath tutor’d, Whose white investments figure innocence, The Dove and every blessed Spirit of Peace ; Wherefore do you so ill translate yourself, Out of the speech of peace, that bears such grace. Into the harih and boist'rous tongue of war ? Turning your books to glaves, your ink to blood, Your pens to launces, your tongue divine To a loud trumpet and a point of war?
* Turning your books to Graves] We should rtainly read, Glaves, i. 6. Swords.