Henry IV, Part I

Hal, what time is it, my boy?

You are so wasted from drinking booze and loosening your pants after lunch and sleeping on benches all afternoon that you don’t even remember how to ask for what you really want to know. What the hell does it matter to you what time it is? Unless hours were glasses of wine, minutes were chickens, clocks were whores’ tongues, sundials were whorehouse signs and the sun itself were a hot woman in a flame-colored dress, I don’t see any reason why you would need to know the time.

Now you’re talking, Hal. Thieves like us operate at night, by the moon and stars, and not by the sun. I hope, pretty boy, that when you become king, God save your Grace—or maybe I should just call you “Your Majesty,” since you don’t have any grace—

None?

No, I swear. Not even enough to say grace before a snack.

Come on, out with it. Get to the point.

Okay then, pretty boy. Whey you become king, don’t let those of us who work at night be blamed for wasting daylight by sleeping through it. Give us fancy names: “Servants of the Moon Goddess Diana;” “Gentlemen of Shadows;” “Lunar Laborers.” Make people admire us for being well behaved. After all, we’re governed by the same force that governs the tides—the pale and cool moon, who lights our way as we sneak around.

Well said. And you’re right—our luck ebbs and flows like the tide, because, like the sea, we’re governed by the moon. I’ll prove it. Imagine a bag of gold, brilliantly swiped on a Monday night and extravagantly spent on a Tuesday morning. You snatch it, shouting, “Hand it off!” and spend it, calling, “Bring it on!” It’s like the gallows: one minute you’re at the bottom of the ladder—low tide. The next, you’re swinging from the top—high tide!

By God that’s right, my boy! And by the way, isn’t the hostess of the tavern a delicious woman?

Sweet as honey from Hybla, you dirty old man. And isn’t a sheriff’s uniform a pretty durable outfit?

What’s that supposed to mean, you crazy man? You’re in the mood for jokes? Why are you talking to me about a sheriff’s uniform?

Well, why the hell are you asking me about the hostess of the tavern?

You’ve asked her for the bill enough times.

Did I ever ask you to pay for any of it?

No. I’ve got to admit, you’ve settled with her all by yourself.

And not just with her, but wherever my cash was good. And when I ran out, I switched to credit.

And you’ve stretched that so far that if it weren’t “here apparent” that you’re the “heir apparent,” your credit wouldn’t be worth a thing. But listen, pretty boy. Will England still have hangmen when you’re king? And will a thief’s courage still be thwarted by that nasty old clown, the law? When you’re king, don’t hang thieves.

No. You will.

I will? Excellent! By God, I’ll be a great judge.

You’ve judged wrong already. I mean, you’ll be in charge of hanging thieves, and become a superb hangman.

All right, Hal. I’ll tell you this: in a way, being a hangman agrees with me just as well as hanging around the court.

Waiting to get your suits granted?

Exactly. I’ve got plenty of those, just like the hangman has plenty of suits—the suits he takes off the dead men he hangs.—Damn, I’m as depressed as a tomcat or a dancing bear in chains.

Or an old lion, or a guitar playing a sad lovesong.

Or the wailing of a bagpipe.

How about a rabbit, or a trip to Moorditch?

You have a knack for foul images. You are the most metaphorical and rascally, sweet young Prince. But Hal, please stop corrupting me with frivolous matters. I wish to God that you and I knew where we could buy a supply of good reputations. The other day, an elderly lord on the King’s Council came up to me in the street and lectured me about you, but I didn’t pay any attention. He spoke wisely, but I ignored him. But he made sense, and in the street, too.

You did well. You know the scripture: “Wisdom cries out in the street but no man listens.”

Oh, you have a wicked talent for wrongly quoting scripture, you really could corrupt a saint. You’ve deeply harmed me, Hal, and God forgive you for it! Before I met you, I was innocent. And now, if I can speak truly, I’m no better than a sinner. I’ve got to change my life, and I will change my life, by God. If I don’t, I’m an evildoer. I won’t be damned, not for any king’s son in the universe.

Where should we go stealing tomorrow, Jack?

For God’s sake, wherever you want, boy. I’ll be one of the gang. If I’m not, call me evildoer and string me up.

I see you’ve changed your life, alright. From praying to pursesnatching.

It’s my calling, Hal. It’s no sin for a man to follow his calling.

Poins! Now we’ll find out whether Mr. Gadshill has planned a robbery. If good deeds bring a man to heaven, there’s no hell hot enough for Poins. This is the most incredible villain, whoever said “Stick ’em up!” to an honest man.

Morning, Ned.

Morning, sweet Hal. What’s Mr. Feelbad got to say? What’s going on, Sir John, Wino Jack? How’s your deal with the devil coming along? You sold him your soul last Good Friday for some cold chicken and a glass of cheap wine, right?

The devil will get what’s coming to him. Sir John’s a man of his word, and he never disagrees with a proverb. He will “give the devil his due.”

(to FALSTAFF) Then you’re damned for keeping your word with the devil.

His only other choice is to be damned for cheating the devil.

But boys, boys! Four o’clock tomorrow morning some pilgrims are going to pass by Gad’s Hill. They’ll be on their way to Canterbury Cathedral with expensive offerings, and traders will be heading to London with bags of money. I’ve got masks for you, you’ve got horses for yourselves. Mr. Gadshill is spending tonight in Rochester, and I’ve already ordered tomorrow night’s dinner in Eastcheap. We could do this in our sleep. If you come, I’ll make you rich. If not, stay home and hang yourselves.

Listen, Yedward. If I stay home and don’t go, I’ll hang you — for going.

You will, fatface?

Hal, are you in?

Who? Me, a robber? Me, a thief? Not me. No way.

If you don’t dare to fight for ten shillings, there’s no honesty, manhood, or friendship in you, and you never came from royal blood.

Well, okay. For once in my life, I’ll be a little crazy.

There you go.

Well, you know what? I’ll stay home.

By God, then I’ll be a traitor when you become king.

I don’t care.

Sir John, do me a favor: leave me and the Prince alone. I’ll spell out such good reasons for this adventure, he’s sure to join.

May God give you the power of persuasion and him the good sense to listen, so that what you say will affect him and what he hears will sink in. This way, the true prince will turn into false thief, just for laughs. After all, all the poor, little vices of the age need encouragement. So long; you’ll find me in Eastcheap.

Farewell, you second spring! Farewell, you summer-in-November!

Now, my good sweet honey sir, come with us tomorrow. I have an idea for a practical joke, and I can’t do it by myself. Falstaff, Peto, Bardolph, and Mr. Gadshill will rob the travelers we’re planning to ambush, but you and I won’t be there. If you and I don’t rob them once they have the loot, then chop off my head!

But we’re all planning to leave together. How will you and I separate ourselves?

We’ll leave before them, or after them. We’ll tell them to meet us someplace, but then we won’t show up. They’ll pull off the robbery by themselves, and the second they’ve done it, we’ll attack them.

Sure, but they’ll recognize our horses, our clothes, and all our other things.

Psh! They won’t see our horses, because I’ll tie them in the forest. We’ll put on new masks after we leave them. And, just for this occasion, I’ve made cloaks out of rough buckram cloth, to cover our regular clothes.

Okay. But I’m afraid they’ll be too tough for us.

Well, I know that two of them are the biggest cowards who ever turned and ran. As for the third, if he fights even a second longer than is absolutely necessary, I promise to never fight again. The best part about this joke will be listening to the outlandish lies this fat clown will tell when we meet for dinner—how he fought at least thirty men, how he defended himself, how he got hit, what he endured. The funniest part will be when we call him on it.

Okay. I’ll go. Get everything together and meet me in Eastcheap tomorrow. I’ll eat there. Farewell.

Farewell, my lord.

I understand all of you. For now, I’ll put on the rowdy behavior of your good-for-nothing ways. But in this way, I’ll be like the sun, who allows the vulgar, corrupting clouds to hide his beauty from the world. Then, when the sun wants to be himself again, he breaks through the foul mists and vapors that seemed to be strangling him. And because people have missed him so much, they are that much more impressed when he finally appears. If every day were a vacation, playing would grow as tedious as working. But when it’s rare, it’s looked forward to. Nothing is as precious as the unexpected occurrence. So when I throw off this wild behavior and accept the responsibilities of being king—a destiny I didn’t choose but was born into—I’ll suddenly seem like a far better man. In this way, I’ll give everyone the wrong expectation of me. Like a bright metal on a dark background, my reformation will shine even more brilliantly when it’s set against my wicked past. I’ll be so wild, I’ll make wildness an art form, then redeem myself when the world least expects me to.