Henry IV, Part II

Open your ears! For who could possibly block them when loud Rumor speaks? I make the wind my horse, and ride it from the Orient in the east to the place where the sun sets in the west, describing the events taking place in the world. I continually tell lies and I tell them in every language, stuffing men’s ears with falsehoods. I say that things are peaceful when, in reality, concealed hatred is at work, hidden behind smiles of good will. And who but Rumor—who besides me—can make armies prepare anxious defenses, when in fact the world is uneasy for other reasons and there’s no war coming at all? Rumor is like a flute. Guesswork, suspicion, and speculation are the breath that makes it sound, and it’s so easy to play that even the common masses—that dim monster with innumerable heads, forever clamoring and wavering—can play it. But why should I describe myself in such detail to the one group of people who knows exactly what falsehood is all about: a theater audience? Why am I here? King Henry has won the war, and at Shrewsbury, he ended the rebellion against him by defeating Hotspur and his allies, quenching the fire of revolt with the rebels’ own blood. But what am I doing, telling you the truth up front? My job is to spread word that Hotspur in his fury killed Prince Hal, and that Douglas killed the King. I’ve spread this rumor through all the peasant villages from Shrewsbury to the place where I now stand: in front of the worm-eaten, dilapidated castle of Northumberland, Hotspur’s father, who lies within and pretends to be sick. The messengers are coming hot and heavy, and every single one of them will report nothing but what he’s heard from me. Straight from Rumor, they bring pretty tales of false comfort, which are far worse than truthful news of misfortune.

Hello? Who’s the doorman around here?

(to the PORTER) Where’s the Earl?

Who shall I say you are?

Tell the Earl that the Lord Bardolph is here to see him.

His lordship is out walking in the orchard. If you don’t mind, knock at the orchard gate and he’ll answer it himself.

Here comes the Earl.

What’s the news, Lord Bardolph? Every minute, new violence erupts; it is a wild time. Conflict is like a horse, fed with too much rich food: it has broken out uncontrollably, and tramples everyone who stands before it.

Noble Earl, I have reliable news from Shrewsbury.

Good news, God willing.

As good as one could wish for. The King has been wounded and is near death. And, thanks to your son’s luck, Prince Harry has been killed. Douglas killed both Lords Blunt. Prince John of Lancaster, Westmoreland, and Stafford fled the battlefield. And your son captured that hulking Sir John Falstaff, Prince Harry’s fattened pig. Oh, there hasn’t been a battle so well fought or a victory so well won since the days of Julius Caesar! It brings honor to our times.

How do you know all this? Did you see the battlefield? Did you come from Shrewsbury?

I talked with someone, my lord, who was coming from there. He was a gentleman, with good breeding and a good reputation. He swore that all this was the truth.

Here comes my servant, Travers. I sent him last Tuesday to find out what was happening.

Sir, I passed him on my way here. He doesn’t know anything more than what I told him.

Now Travers, what good news do you have?

Sir, Lord Bardolph told me happy news and I turned around, to come back here. But he had a faster horse, so he passed me and got here first. Another man came after him, riding hard. He was nearly exhausted from going so fast, and he stopped to give his bleeding horse a break. He asked me for directions to Chester, and I demanded to hear news from Shrewsbury. He said that the rebels had been beaten, and that Harry Percy’s spur was cold. Then he took off on his horse, leaned forward in his saddle, and jammed his heels into the animal’s side so hard that they almost disappeared. He rode so fast he seemed to be devouring the highway. He didn’t stay around to answer any of my questions.

What? Say that again: he said that Harry Percy’s spur was cold? Hotspur is now “Coldspur?” That the rebels had bad luck?

My lord, I’ll tell you what—if your son hasn’t won, on my honor, I’ll exchange all my land for a lace to tie stockings with; don’t even say such a thing.

But why would that gentleman who rode past Travers describe such examples of loss?

Who, him? He was some insignificant nobody who stole the horse he was riding and, I bet my life, was just talking nonsense. Look, here comes another messenger.

Yes. And the look on his face is like the title page of a book: it hints at the tragic story within. His brow is lined with furrows, like a beach after a wild flood. Morton, did you come from Shrewsbury?

I ran from Shrewsbury, my noble lord. Death was there, frightening our side with his ugliest mask.

How are my son and my brother? You’re trembling, and the paleness of your face is more likely to convey your news than your tongue. This is like that old story about the burning of Troy. A man like you—faint, lifeless, dull, deadly-looking, sad—woke King Priam in the dead of night to tell him that half the city of Troy had been burned down. But Priam saw the fire before this man could speak, and I can see my Percy’s death before you report it. You’re going to tell me, “Your son did such-and-such; your brother did this; the noble Douglas fought like so.” You’ll stuff my greedy ears with stories of their bold deeds. But in the end, you’ll stop my ears forever with a sigh that blows away all your words of praise. You will end your story by saying, “Your brother, your son, everyone-dead.”

Douglas is alive, and so is your brother, for now. But as for your son, my lord—

Why, he is dead. My suspicion is so quick to speak! When a man fears something, and doesn’t want to know the truth, he can still tell when that thing has happened; by instinct, he can read it in another man’s eyes. But speak, Morton. Tell me, who am an earl, that I have no talent for prophecy. I’ll take it as a pleasant insult, and I’ll pay you richly for doing me that wrong.

You are too great a man to be slandered by me. Your instinct is correct; your fears are true.

But despite all this, don’t say that Percy’s dead. I can see a strange sort of confession in your eyes. You shake your head; you’re afraid to tell the truth, or you think it would be sinful. If he’s been killed, say so. The man who reports a death doesn’t offend with that report. To lie about the dead is a sin, but it is no sin to say that a dead man is not alive. It’s a losing situation, being the first man to bring unwelcome news. That man’s voice sounds forever like a sad bell, and it will always be remembered for tolling the death of a friend.

My lord, I cannot believe your son is dead.

I’m sorry that I must force you to believe this, when I wish to God that I hadn’t seen it myself. But I saw him, in his bloody state, with my own eyes. He was barely able to fight back, exhausted and out of breath. Harry Monmouth’s swift fury beat the unflinching Percy down to the ground, and once he was there, Percy never rose again. To be brief, Percy’s spirit inspired the entire army, down to the dullest peasant. When the news got out that he had been killed, it took the fire and courage away from even the bravest soldiers. Percy’s metal steeled the whole army; when they learned that he had been blunted, they bent and warped like dull, heavy lead. And just as a heavy object gains momentum once it’s pushed into motion, our army, made heavy by Hotspur’s death, suddenly started moving fast—faster than arrows flying toward a target—but they flew toward safety, not toward the battle. Soon, Worcester, that furious Scotsman, was captured. The warlike Douglas, who killed three enemies disguised as King Henry, began to lose courage: he ran away as well, lending his authority to the shameful retreat. But running in fear, he stumbled and was captured. The bottom line is that King Henry has won. He’s sent a speedy force after you, sir, led by young John of Lancaster and Westmoreland. That is the whole story.

There will be time to mourn for this. Sometimes poison can be a kind of medicine: this news, which would have made me sick had I been well, has, because I am sick, made me well. A dying man—his joints weakened by fever, dangling like useless hinges and crumpling under the man’s own weight—will sometimes be stuck with a fit of impatience, causing him to burst out of his caretaker’s arms. My limbs are like that now; once weakened by grief, they’re now enraged by grief, and are three times as powerful as they were before. Away from me, you unmanly crutch! Chain mail armor will cover my hands now. Away from me, you invalid’s cap! You are too fanciful a helmet for this head which is now the target of kings, grown arrogant with their victories. Wrap my head in iron, and then attack me with the roughest things that destiny and hatred will dare to bring upon me in my rage. Let the sky come crashing down! Let the ocean overflow the shores! Let law and order die! And let the world no longer be a stage for a long, drawn-out struggle: let the spirit of Cain, who committed the first murder against his brother Abel, live in every heart. If every heart is a murderer’s heart, this violent play will end, and darkness will shroud the corpses.

This extreme passion is bad for you, sir.

Gentle Earl, don’t abandon your wisdom. All your allies are depending on you and your well-being. If you allow yourself to indulge in this kind of stormy emotion, your health will deteriorate even further. Before you said, “Let’s raise an army,” you calculated how the war might end, and you thought carefully about the likeliness of a victory. You knew from the beginning that, once the fighting started, your son might die. You knew that he was treading dangerously, as if on the edge of a precipice: you knew he was more likely to fall over than make it across. You were warned that your son was made of flesh and blood, and that it was possible he’d get hurt. You were warned that his temper and hot-headedness would push him into the most dangerous situations. But you still said, “Go forward.” None of this consideration, even though it was clearly understood, could stop the stubborn course of events. So what happened here? What has been the result of this brave undertaking? Only this: precisely what was likely to happen in the first place.

We all knew that we were venturing into dangerous waters. We knew the odds were ten to one that we would come out alive, and yet we ventured forward anyway. The potential reward of winning outweighed the fear of our probable loss. We lost this time, but let’s try again. Come, we’ll all go for it, body and soul.

It is the appropriate time. Good sir, I hear for certain, and I tell you truthfully, that the Archbishop of York has raised a powerful army. He motivates his men with both his earthly and his spiritual powers. My lord, your son commanded only his soldiers’ bodies. The word “rebellion” frightened them, separating their bodies from their hearts. It caused them to fight timidly, hesitantly, as though they were taking medicine: their weapons seemed to be on our side, but their spirits and souls were frozen, like fish in an icy pond. But now, the Archbishop turns our rebellion into a religious cause. Everyone believes he’s a righteous and holy man, and they follow him not only in body but also in mind. He enhances his cause by preaching about the blood of good King Richard, which was spilled at Pomfret Castle. The Archbishop claims that he derives his authority from heaven; tells the men that the whole country is bleeding, gasping for life under the terrible leadership of Bolingbroke. And so men from every walk of life flock like sheep to follow him.

I knew all this, but to tell you the truth, this terrible grief had pushed it out of my thoughts. Come inside; I want to hear everyone’s ideas on the best way to defend ourselves and enact our revenge. Send out messengers and letters, and make new allies quickly. Our numbers have never been smaller, but there’s never been more need for what we have to do.

Sirrah, you giant, what did the doctor say about my urine?

He said that the urine itself was good, healthy urine, but that the man who owned it probably had more diseases than he could tell.

All kinds of people make it a matter of pride to heckle me. No man—that foolishly assembled lump of clay—could ever invent something quite as funny as I seem to be to other people. I’m not only witty on my own, but I bring out wit in other people. Look at the two of us, walking here: I look like a sow that’s smothered all of her baby pigs, except for you. If the Prince sent you to serve me for any other reason than to irritate me, I’m a fool. You weedy little son of a bitch: you’re so tiny that you should be a decoration on my hat, not a servant at my feet. I’ve never had a servant before who was as tiny as a ring stone. But I won’t set you in a gold or silver ring; I’ll wrap you in rags and send you back to your master, to be used as a jewel—that youth, the Prince your master, whose chin is still lacking a beard. Why, I’ll grow a beard in the palm of my hand before he’ll have one that he can shave off his face. And yet, this doesn’t stop him from claiming that he has a face for royalty. Well, God will give him a beard whenever he chooses to—there’s not a hair out of place yet. It’s a good thing the Prince’s face is a royal, because a barber will never earn a coin from shaving it. And still, the Prince brags that he’s been a full-grown man since before he was born. He can keep that title, for all I care; I have no affection for him now, I can assure him. What did Master Dommelton say about the satin for my cape and baggy trousers?

He said that you have to give him a better guarantee of payment than just saying Bardolph was good for it. He wouldn’t accept Bardolph’s promise or yours; he felt that neither should be trusted.

Damn him to hell then, just like Dives in the Bible—the rich glutton who rejected the beggar Lazarus! And may Dommelton burn even hotter! He’s a son-of-a-bitch traitor! A two-faced liar, who smiles and says “Yes sir, that’ll be fine” to my face, and then demands a guarantee of payment! These bastard shopkeepers, with their fashionable short haircuts, and fancy shoes, and their fat key chains on their belts—you make an agreement to put something on credit, and then they throw a “guarantee of payment” at you. I would rather eat rat poison than guarantee my payment. I expected him to send me twenty-two yards of satin, and instead he sends me a “guarantee of payment.” Well, let him guarantee himself a good night’s sleep. After all, his wife’s in somebody else’s bed, so why not? She’s practically shining a spotlight on her adultery, but he’s so clueless he can’t even tell. Where’s Bardolph?

He went to Smithfield to buy you a horse, sir.

I bought Bardolph at St. Paul’s Cathedral, and he’s buying me a horse in Smithfield. Now if he could just find me a wife in a whorehouse, I’d be fully stocked with high-quality servants, horses, and wives.

Sir, here comes the man who put the Prince in jail for hitting him during that argument about Bardolph.

Hide; I don’t want to talk to him.

Who is that man?

Falstaff, if it please you, sir.

The man who was a suspect in that robbery?

That’s the one. But he did good work in the Battle of Shrewsbury, and I hear he’s taking some soldiers to help Lord John of Lancaster.

Where, to York? Tell him to come here.

Sir John Falstaff!

Boy, tell him I’m deaf.

You have to speak up; my master is deaf.

I’m sure he is, when anything good’s being said. Go, tap him on the shoulder. I must speak with him.

Sir John!

What? A young troublemaker? A beggar? Isn’t there a war on? Isn’t there work to do? Doesn’t the King need subjects? Don’t the rebels need soldiers? Though it’s shameful to be on any side but the King’s, it’s even more shameful to be an idle beggar than a soldier on wrong side—even if the rebellion were more despicable than the word “rebellion” already leads me to believe.

You’re mistaken, sir.

Why is that? Did I say you were an honest man? Because, setting aside the fact that I’m knight and a soldier, I’d be nothing but a liar if I said that.

Then please, sir, set aside your knighthood and your soldiership and let me tell you that you’re a deliberate liar, if you say I’m anything other than an honest man.

Should I allow you to say that? Should I set aside something that’s mine by right? If I allow you anything, hang me. If you allow yourself, hang you. You’re running in the wrong direction: get out of here! Go!

Sir, my master wants to speak with you.

Sir John Falstaff, I’d like a word with you.

My good sir! God grant you a good day! It’s great to see you out and about: I’d heard you were sick. I hope your doctor knows you’re out. Though you’re not entirely past your youth, your lordship, you have a touch of age in you, a touch of the passage of time, and I must humbly urge you to take good care of your health.

Sir John, I sent for you to come see me before you left for Shrewsbury.

If you don’t mind my saying so, I hear the King is back from Wales and it didn’t go so well.

I’m not talking about the King. You didn’t come when I sent for you.

And I also hear that the King has fallen into a terrible paralysis.

Well, God give him a speedy recovery. Please, let me speak with you.

His paralysis is, as I understand it, a kind of lethargy, if it please you. It’s a sleepiness in the blood, a nasty tingling.

Why are you telling me this? Let it be.

It comes from heavy sadness; from too much reading, and too much thinking. I read about it in the reference books: it’s a kind of deafness.

I think you must have that disease as well, because you’re not hearing a word I’m saying.

Very likely, my lord, very likely. But actually, sir, I have the not-listening disease; I have the not-paying-attention sickness.

The cure for that illness would be to put you in shackles, and I wouldn’t mind being your doctor.

I may be as poor as Job, but I’m not as patient. You may be able to throw me in jail because of my poverty, but some people might have slight reservations about that.

I sent for you to come speak with me. There were charges against you that might have earned you the death penalty.

I was advised that, since I was working for the army at the time, I shouldn’t go.

The truth is, Sir John, that you are massively notorious.

Anybody who wears a belt this big couldn’t be anything less than massive.

Your bank account is thin, and yet you put it to huge waste.

I wish it were the other way around: that my bank account were huge and my waist were thin.

You’ve misled the young Prince.

The young Prince has misled me. I’m the man with the big belly, and he’s the dog who walks in front of me.

Well, I’d rather not open up a wound that’s just healed. The good work you did at Shrewsbury has made up a little for the bad thing you did at Gad’s Hill. You can thank the rebellion for helping you get away with that terrible deed.

Really?

But since things are calm now, let’s keep them that way. We won’t wake a sleeping wolf.

To wake a wolf is as bad as to smell a fox.

What? You’re like a candle, half burned out.

Maybe, if I were a big, fat holiday candle made of animal fat. But you’d be better off saying that I’m a wax candle: I keep “waxing” larger and larger.

Your gray beard should be a sign that you’re a man of gravity.

I’m a man of gravy, gravy, gravy.

You follow the young Prince everywhere, like a false angel on his shoulder.

That’s not so, my lord. False angels are light, and anyone can see without having to weigh me that I’m too heavy. But I don’t know; in some ways, you’re right. I’m not for these times. Virtue counts for so little in this commercial world of ours. True courage is worthless; it’s only used by animal trainers in the bear-baiting rings. Intelligence is good for nobody but bartenders, who waste their wits totaling up tavern bills. In these mean-spirited days, man’s best qualities aren’t worth a thing. You older folks don’t value us young people. You measure our fiery passion according to your melancholic bitterness. And I have to tell you, those of us who are highly advanced in our youth, we’re spirited as well as young.

You’d add your name to the list of the young? You, who have age written all over you? Don’t you have mucus in your eyes? Dry skin? Jaundice? A white beard? An arthritic leg? A growing belly? Isn’t your voice scratchy? Your breath short? Your chin doubled? Your last wit abandoned? Isn’t every part of you devastated by age? And still you call yourself young? Shame on you, Sir John.

Sir, I was born around three o’clock in the afternoon, with a white head and a bit of a round belly. As for my scratchy voice, I lost it through shouting and singing loud songs. But I won’t try to prove how young I am any longer. I have only one trait of old age, and that is wisdom. If somebody wants to challenge me to a dance contest for a thousand-mark wager, let him hand me the money and off we go. Now, as for the fact that the Prince hit you on the head, he did it like a rude prince and you took it like a sensible gentleman. I reprimanded him for it, and he repents. He’s not wearing the traditional sackcloth and ashes, for sure, but he’s repenting in silk cloth and wine.

May God send the Prince a better friend!

May God send the friend a better prince! I can’t get him off my hands!

Well, the King has separated you and Prince Harry. I hear you’re going with John of Lancaster to go fight Northumberland and the Archbishop.

Yes, and thanks for reminding me. I hope that all of you who stay home, safe and sound, will say a prayer that we soldiers don’t end up in some hot battle. For, by the Lord, I’ve only packed two shirts, and I don’t want to sweat too much. If things get hot and I pull out any other weapon besides a bottle, I’ll never drink wine again. I get sent out on every dangerous assignment that comes up. Well, I can’t live forever. That’s the thing about the English: when they have something good, they use it continually. If you’re going to insist that I’m an old man, then let me rest. I wish to God the enemy weren’t as scared of me as they are: I’d rather sit and rust than be worn out by all this work.

Well, stay honest, stay honest. God bless your undertaking.

Could your lordship lend me a thousand pounds for some equipment I need?

Not a penny, not a penny: you’re too impatient to endure adversity. Farewell; give my regards to my kinsman Westmoreland.

If I do, hit me with a sledgehammer. Old age and greed go together like youth and lust. Gout afflicts one and syphilis plagues the other, so there’s no point in me cursing either the old or the young: they’re both cursed already. Boy!

Sir?

How much money’s in my wallet?

About seven groats and two pence.

There no way to cure the illness that’s making my wallet waste away; borrowing makes it live a little longer, but the disease is incurable. Bring this letter to Lord John of Lancaster, this one to the Prince, this one to Westmoreland, and this one to Madame Ursula. I’ve promised to marry her every single week since I got my first gray hair. Get going: you know where I’ll be.

Damn this gout! Or damn this syphilis! One of them is really messing up my big toe. Oh well, it doesn’t matter if I limp. I can blame it on the war, and that will help justify my disability payments. A sharp brain can turn any problem to its advantage. I’ll turn my diseases into cash.

So that’s what we’re fighting for, and that’s the kind of support we have. Now please, my noble friends, tell me frankly if you think we have a chance. First you, Marshal Mowbray. What do you say?

I absolutely agree with our reasons for fighting. But given our resources, I’d feel better if I knew how we’re going to grow bold and strong enough to defeat this mighty and powerful King.

Our army has grown to twenty-five thousand good men. Our reinforcements are coming with Northumberland, and his heart burns with anger over all he’s lost.

Then, Lord Hastings, this is the question: can our twenty-five thousand get the job done without Northumberland?

With him, we can.

Yes, exactly, and that’s the point. If we’re too weak without him, then I don’t think we should advance until we know that his help is guaranteed. In a fight as bloody as this one, we need to be certain about the status of our supporters: we can’t rely on conjecture, hope, and guesswork when aid isn’t guaranteed.

That’s right, Lord Bardolph. That’s what happened to young Hotspur at Shrewsbury.

That’s true, my lord. Hotspur fortified himself with nothing but hope, and mistook empty words as a true promise of reinforcements. He imagined that a huge army was coming to his aid, but what actually arrived turned out to be even smaller than the smallest of his fantasies. And so, with daydreams that could only belong to a madman, he closed his eyes and leaped into destruction.

But, begging your pardon, there’s no harm in making guesses and hopeful strategies.

Yes, there is. Presently, our armies are already in motion, but putting our hope in them is as ridiculous as expecting that early spring buds will produce fruit: at that time of year, buds are more likely to be killed by frost than to bloom. When we want to put up a building, first we survey the land, and then we draw up a set of plans. Then we calculate the cost, and if we can’t afford it, we revise the plans with fewer rooms, or we decide not to build at all. In the great task we’re attempting—the taking down of one kingdom, and the building of another—we have even more reason to evaluate the land and the plans. We must be certain that the foundation is sound, that the engineer is skilled. We must know precisely what we can afford, how ready and able we are, and we must consider the opposing arguments. Otherwise, it becomes a meaningless exercise: papers and numbers, and names of men rather than real, live men. That’s like drawing up plans for a house you can’t possibly afford, building half of it, and then abandoning the partly-built structure to be ruined by the elements.

Let’s suppose that everything we’re hoping for fails to materialize, and the army we have now is as big as it’s going to get. I still think that, even in this condition, we’re a match for the King.

Why? Does the King only have twenty-five thousand men?

The King isn’t facing us with any more than that—in fact, he doesn’t even have that many, Lord Bardolph. This is a time of war, and the King’s had to divide his army into three sections. One division is fighting the French; one’s fighting Glendower. That leaves a third of his army to fight against us. The King is weak and divided into three, and the coffers of his treasury echo with the sounds of hollow poverty and emptiness.

There’s no reason to fear that he will pull all three divisions together and confront us with his full strength.

If he did that, he’d be vulnerable at the rear, and the French and the Welsh would be at his heels. He would never let that happen.

Who’s going to lead his troops against us?

The Duke of Lancaster and Westmoreland. The King and Harry Monmouth will fight against the Welsh. I don’t know for sure who is in charge of the fight against the French.

Let’s continue. We’ll publicly proclaim the reasons we’re fighting. The people are sick of the leadership they themselves supported. They were greedy for it, but now they have overfed. When you build your foundation on the public’s love, you build on shaky and unsure ground. Oh, you foolish masses! You shouted your love for Bolingbroke to the skies, before you knew what he’d turn into. Now that you’re dressed in the things you desired, you monstrous devourer, you’re so full of Bolingbroke that you’re ready to vomit him up. This, you vulgar dog, is just how you emptied your gluttonous stomach of King Richard; and now you want to eat up your dead vomit, and you howl trying to find it. What can you count on in this world? The very people who wanted Richard dead when he was alive are now in love with his corpse. The very people who threw garbage on his noble head when he marched through London in shame behind the admired Bolingbroke are now saying, “Oh Earth, return that King, and take this one!” Curses on men’s thoughts! Only the past and the future appeal to them; whatever they have right now they despise.

Should we gather our troops and press forward?

Time is our commander, and time proposes we be on our way.

Master Fang, have you filed the lawsuit?

It’s filed.

Where’s your deputy? Is he a strong deputy? Will he rise to the occasion?

Sirrah, where’s Snare?

Oh my goodness! Master Snare!

Here, here.

Snare, we’ve got to arrest Sir John Falstaff.

Yes, good Master Snare. I’ve filed the suit against him and everything.

It could cost some of us our lives: he’ll stab.

Oh my goodness! Watch out for him: he stabbed me in my own house, and it was nasty. I swear, he doesn’t care what trouble he causes. Once he’s got his weapon out, he’ll thrust it like the devil. He won’t spare man, woman, or child.

If I can get close to him, I won’t worry about his thrusting.

Me neither. I’ll be right next to you.

If I can grab him once, if he just comes within my grasp-

I’m bankrupt from his never paying. He’s run up an infinitive bill with me. Catch him, Master Fang! Don’t let him get away, Master Snare! He’s always going to Pie Corner—sorry to mention it—to buy a saddle. And every day he gets indited to lunch with Master Smooth the silk seller, at the Leopard’s Head on Lumbert Street. Please bring him to justice. I’ve been entered—I mean, my lawsuit’s been entered at court, and the whole world knows how easy I am—I mean how easy it was for him to rip me off. A hundred marks is a lot for a poor, solitary woman to take. And I’ve taken it, and taken it, and taken it. And I’ve been fobbed off and fobbed off and fobbed off, day in and day out. It’s horrible to even think about. That’s a terrible way to treat people, unless you think that every woman should be made an ass and an animal, and that she should be opened to every jerk’s molestation. Here he comes, with that notorious wine-faced crook, Bardolph. Do me a favor and do me your jobs, Master Fang and Master Snare. Do me! Do me! Do me a favor and do me your jobs!

What’s going on? Whose horse died? What’s the matter?

Sir John, you’re under arrest for charges brought by Mistress Quickly.

Get out of here, you crooks! Draw your sword, Bardolph. Cut off this rascal’s head, and throw this whore in the gutter.

Throw me in the gutter? I’ll throw you in the gutter. You will? You will? You bastardly cheat! Murder! Murder! Oh, you honeysuckle criminal! You’re going to kill God’s sheriffs, and the King’s? Oh, you honey-seed creep! You’re a honey-seed, a man-killer, and a woman-killer.

Keep them off me, Bardolph.

An escape! An escape!

Somebody, bring an escape or two! (to FALSTAFF) You will, will you? You will, will you? Go ahead, go ahead, you scoundrel! You hemp-seed!

Get off, you serving wench! You ruffian! You fat old hag! I’ll beat you on the backside!

What’s the matter? Let’s have some order here!

Good sir, be good to me. I beg you, stand up for me.

Well if it isn’t Sir John! Are you making trouble here? Is this appropriate for a man of your position, your age, and your responsibilities? You should be well on your way to York by now. (to FANG) Get off him, man. Why are you holding him?

Oh, most excellent lord, begging your pardon: I’m a poor Eastcheap widow, and he’s arrested on charges I brought against him.

What sum does he owe you?

It’s more than some, sir: it’s all, all that I have. He’s eaten me out of house and home. He’s put everything I own into that fat belly of his. (to FALSTAFF) But I’ll get some of it back again, or I’ll ride you all night like a bad dream.

I think I might just ride you, if I get the chance to mount you.

What is this, Sir John? Damn! How could any decent man put up with this storm of screaming and cursing? Aren’t you ashamed to force a poor widow to take these extreme measures simply to get what’s hers?

(to MISTRESS QUICKLY) What’s the total I owe you?

My goodness! If you were an honest man, you’d give yourself to me, as well as the money. You swore to me—over a gold-plated wine goblet, in the Dolphin Room in my tavern, at the round table, next to the fire, on the Wednesday seven weeks after Easter, when the Prince swung at your head for claiming his father was a fake—you swore, while I was cleaning your wounds, to marry me and make me a proper lady and your wife. Can you deny it? Didn’t Mrs. Baconfat, the butcher’s wife, come into the room then and ask to borrow some vinegar, saying that she had some good prawns—and you wanted to eat some, and I told you that it was a bad idea, to eat shrimp when you had a fresh wound—and when she left, didn’t you tell me to stop being friends with low types like her, because before long we’d be married and I’d be a proper lady? And didn’t you kiss me and tell me to lend you thirty shillings? Put your hand on the bible and deny it, if you dare.

Sir, this is a poor, insane soul. She’s been saying all over town that her oldest son looks just like you. She was once rich, but poverty has driven her crazy. Now, as for these two foolish officers, I would like to press charges against them.

Sir John, Sir John. I know too well how you are accustomed to turning the truth into a big lie. But neither your confident demeanor nor the storm of words that accompanies your insolent disrespect will sway me from making a just consideration. As far as I can see, you’ve taken advantage of this trusting woman, and you’ve made her give you cash and other favors.

Yes, truthfully, sir.

Quiet, please. (to FALSTAFF) Pay her what you owe her, and undo the wrongdoings you’ve done to her. You can do the first with money, and the second with a sincere apology.

Sir, I will not put up with this snub without a reply. You call my brave, honorable dealings insolent disrespect. Does a man have to stand here, silent and bowing, to be a virtuous man? No, sir. With all due respect, I won’t bow down to you. I say that I want to be set free by these officers, seeing as I have urgent work to do for the King.

You talk as though you have permission to break the law. But act appropriately to your status: satisfy this poor woman.

Come here, hostess.

Master Gower, what’s going on?

My lord, the King and Harry Prince of Wales are nearby. This letter will tell you the rest.

On my honor.

Honestly, that’s what you said before.

On my honor. Come, let’s not talk about it anymore.

By heaven above and below, I’ll have to pawn my good china and the tapestries in my dining rooms.

It’s not such a big deal. Glass is the only good thing to drink out of anyway. And as for the walls, something pretty and comical—or a depiction of the prodigal son; or maybe one of those German hunting scenes, painted on the wall to look like a tapestry—why, those are worth a thousand of those bed curtains and moth-eaten tapestries. Let me borrow just ten pounds, all right? Come on—other than your moodiness, you’re the best wench in England. Go wash your face and withdraw the lawsuit. Come on—don’t be this way with me. Don’t you know me? Come, come, I know somebody put you up to this.

Please, Sir John, let’s call it twenty nobles. I don’t want to have to pawn my china, in God’s name!

All right, forget it. I’ll figure something else out. You’ll always be a fool.

All right, I’ll lend it to you, even if I have to pawn my clothes. I hope you’ll have dinner here tonight. You’ll pay me the full amount then?

Will I live? (to BARDOLPH) Go, stick with her, stick with her. Don’t let her out of your sight.

Do you want Doll Tearsheet to meet you at dinner?

No more talking. Let’s have her.

I’ve heard better news.

What’s the news, my lord?

Where did the King spend last night?

At Basingstoke, sir.

I hope everything’s okay, sir. What’s the news?

And his armies have come back?

No. Fifteen hundred infantrymen and five hundred horsemen are marching to meet Lord Lancaster, to fight against Northumberland and the Archbishop.

Is the King back from Wales, my noble lord?

I’ll give you some letters shortly. Come with me, Master Gower.

Sir!

What’s the matter?

Master Gower, would you like to join me for lunch?

I have to attend to this noble man right here. But thank you, Sir John.

Sir John, you’ve been loitering here too long. You have to recruit soldiers in the counties you pass through on your way north.

Will you join me for supper, then, Master Gower?

What foolish teacher taught you these manners, Sir John?

Master Gower, if my manners are inappropriate, I must have indeed been taught by a fool. That’s how the game is played—tit for tat, and game over.

God help you! You are a great fool.

I swear to God, I’m exceedingly tired.

Really? I would have thought that weariness wouldn’t dare afflict someone as highly born as you.

Well, it afflicts me, although saying so dims my nobility somewhat. Does it make me seem coarse and common to say that I’d love a small beer?

A prince shouldn’t be vulgarly inclined toward things like small beer.

Then I suppose don’t have a prince’s appetite, because right now all I can think about is small beer. But it’s true: all these everyday considerations distance me from my own nobility. It’s disgraceful that I should be familiar with a man like you! To know your name, your face, and your wardrobe so intimately that I know that you have two pairs of stockings: the ones you’re wearing now, and those peach-colored ones. I even know how many shirts you have: one to wear, and one extra. But then, the keeper of the tennis courts knows your wardrobe better than I do, for when you’ve run out of clean shirts, you don’t show up to play. And you haven’t played in a while, because the whore houses have eaten all the rest of your money, which you’d otherwise use to buy more shirts. God only knows whether all the crying brats you’ve fathered will make it to heaven. But then, the midwives say that babies don’t bear the sins of the parents. That’s how the population increases, and families are strengthened.

It seems wrong, after all your hard work in battle, that you should be spending your time now in idle chatter. How many other princes would behave like this if their fathers were as sick as yours?

Can I tell you something, Poins?

Sure; and make sure it’s an excellent thing.

It’ll be fine, for people who aren’t any smarter than you are.

Go ahead. I’m can take whatever you have to say.

Here it is, then. It’s not seemly for me to be sad over my father’s illness. But I could tell you—as a person who, for lack of anyone else, I’m pleased to call my friend—that I could be sad. I could be very sad, indeed.

It would be difficult to feel that way over a thing like this.

I swear, you must think that I’m as sinful as you and Falstaff are, and as stubborn and persistent. We’ll see about that. But I’m telling you: my heart is bleeding for my father, and for his illness. But because I’m hanging out with lowlifes like you, I can’t show how sorrowful I am.

Why?

What would you think of me if I started crying?

I would think you’re a royal hypocrite.

That’s what everyone would be thinking. And what’s great about you is that you think just the way everyone else does: nobody sticks to popular opinion quite as well as you. Everyone would think I was a hypocrite, indeed. And, your honor, what makes you think that?

Because you’ve behaved so badly, and because you’re so attached to Falstaff.

And to you.

Honestly, people think highly of me; I hear their praises with my own ears. The worst thing they can say about me is that, as a younger brother, I’ve had no inheritance from my family, and that I’m a good fighter. And I can’t help either of those things. By God, here comes Bardolph.

And the boy who I sent to work for Falstaff. He was a normal boy when I sent him, and now look: the fat bastard’s turned him into an ape.

God save your grace!

And yours, most noble Bardolph!

(to BARDOLPH) Come on, you principled ass, you timid fool! Why are you blushing? What a womanly solider you are! Is it that big a deal to deflower a two-quart tankard of ale?

Just now he called to me from behind a red window shade, and I couldn’t tell his face from the curtain! Finally I saw his eyes, and I thought he’d made two holes in a whore’s skirt and peeped through them!

This kid’s learned a lot from Falstaff, hasn’t he?

Get out of here, you little rabbit! Get out!

You get out, you rotten Althea’s dream!

What dream, boy? Tell us.

Sir, Althea dreamed she gave birth to a red-hot iron. That’s why I call him her dream; he’s all red in the face.

That joke’s worth a crown! Here you go, boy.

I wish this wholesome little flower could be kept away from disease. Well, here’s a sixpence for you.

If between the three of you this boy doesn’t end up hanged, the gallows will be cheated.

How’s your master Falstaff doing, Bardolph?

Fine, sir. He heard you were coming to town. Here’s a letter for you.

Delivered very respectfully. How is that fattened calf, your boss?

His body’s healthy, sir.

That’s right, it’s just his immortal soul that needs a doctor. But he doesn’t care. His soul may be sick, but it won’t die.

(reads to himself) I allow this wart to be as familiar with me as my dog, and he holds onto his privileged position. Listen to how he writes. (he hands the letter to POINS)

(reads) “John Falstaff, knight”—he always throws that title around, every chance he gets. It’s like people who are related to the King: every time they get a tiny cut, they say, “Some of the King’s blood has been spilled.” Then someone pretends not to get it, and asks, “How do you mean?” The answer comes faster than a beggar can whip out his cap: “I’m the King’s poor relative.”

Right. They all say they’re related to us, even if they have to trace the family tree all the way back to Japhet, the common ancestor of all Europeans. But back to the letter. (takes the letter and reads) “Sir John Falstaff—knight to the son of the King, nearest to his father, Harry Prince of Wales—sends his greetings.”

Listen to that. It sounds like a contract.

Quiet! (reads) “I will copy the Romans in shortness.”

He must mean shortness of breath, and wheezing.

(reads) “I salute myself, I salute you, and I’m done. Don’t get too close to Poins. He takes such rampant advantage of your kindness that he swears you will marry his sister Nell. Confess your sins when you have the time; and with that, farewell. Yours up and down (which is to say, in whatever way you feel like), I remain Jack Falstaff to my friends, John to my brothers and sisters, and Sir John to all Europe.”

Sir, I’ll soak this letter in wine and shove it down his throat.

That would be making him eat twenty of his words. But are you taking advantage of me like he says, Ned? Must I marry your sister?

It would be her lucky day if you did. But I never said that.

Well, we’re wasting time, and the angels in heaven are mocking us. (to BARDOLPH) Is your boss here in London?

Yes, my lord.

Where’s he eating tonight? Is the old pig eating in the old sty?

At the old place, my lord. In Eastcheap.

Who’s with him?

The usual old characters.

Are any women eating with him?

No women sir. Just old Mistress Quickly and Mistress Doll Tearsheet.

What heathen is that?

A proper lady, sir, and my master’s relative.

Exactly the kind of relative as the country cows are to the town bull. Ned, should we spy on them as they eat supper?

I’m after you like a shadow, my lord: I’ll follow you.

Sirrah, you boy, and you, Bardolph—don’t tell your master that I’m back in town. (gives them money) This is for your silence.

I have no tongue to speak with, sir.

As for my tongue, I’ll manage it.

Farewell to you both; go now.

This Doll Tearsheet must be some road.

Truly, she’s as well-traveled as the highway to London.

How can we see Falstaff behave like his true self tonight, and yet not be detected ourselves?

We’ll put on leather jackets and aprons and wait upon him as bartenders.

Should a God disguise himself as a bull? That’s quite a degradation. Well, Jove did it. And should a prince disguise himself as an apprentice bartender and transform into something so lowly? Yes, I will: in every undertaking, the ends must match the means. Follow me, Ned.

Please, my loving wife and sweet daughter-in-law, support me in my difficult tasks. Don’t let the grimness of these days be reflected in your faces; don’t add to Percy’s troubles.

I give up; I won’t say any more. Do what you want. Let your wisdom guide you.

For goodness sake, sweet wife, my honor is at stake. Nothing can redeem it except my going.

For God’s sake, don’t go to these wars! Father-in-law, you once broke your word when you had better reason to keep it than you do now. Your own son Percy—my heart’s beloved Harry—looked northward again and again, hoping to see his father coming with an army. But he hoped in vain. Who persuaded you to stay home that time? Two honors were lost in that battle: yours, and your son’s. As for yours, I hope God will make it shine again. As for Harry’s honor, it clung to him like the sun in a pale blue sky, and by its light every knight in England was moved to act bravely. He was the mirror in which noble youths dressed themselves. All men copied his way of walking, except those who had no legs. And talking loudly and quickly—the one flaw nature had given him—became the speech pattern for all brave men. Those who spoke softly and slowly would corrupt their proper speech, just to seem more like Harry. In speech, bearing, and diet; in inclinations toward pleasure, in military actions, and in moods, he was the target, mirror, example, and rulebook that other men followed. And him—Oh wondrous him! Oh miracle of men!—you left him! The best man in the world, unsupported by you, faced the hideous god of war from a position of weakness. His only defense was the sound of his own name, and that is how you left him. Never insult his memory by letting your honor count more with strangers than with him. Leave them alone: Marshal Mowbray and the Archbishop are strong. If my darling Harry had had half their army, I might be hanging on his neck today, talking about Prince Hal’s grave.

For goodness sake, pretty daughter-in-law. You take me out of myself, reminding me again of these past mistakes. But I must go and face danger there or danger will find me somewhere else, where I will be less prepared.

Oh, run to Scotland until these noblemen and their armies have skirmished against the king.

If they make any headway against the King, then join them, and like a steel rod make their strength even stronger. But in the name of the love you feel for us, let them begin on their own. That’s how your son fought. You allowed him to do that, and that’s how I became a widow. If I spend the rest of my life pouring tears on the plant of remembrance, it will never grow tall enough to pay proper tribute to my extraordinary husband.

Come. Come. Go inside with me. My thoughts are like the ocean at high tide—neither coming in nor going out, seeming to stand still. I want to go join the Archbishop, but many thousands of reasons are holding me back. I’ll go to Scotland and wait there till events unfold and my help is called for.

What the hell have you got there? Apple johns? You know Sir John can’t stand apple johns.

Damn, you’re right. One day the Prince put a plate of apple-johns in front of Falstaff and said, “Here are five more Sir Johns.” Then the Prince took off his hat and said, “I’m now going to bid farewell to these six dry, round, old, withered knights.” It angered Sir John deeply, but he got over it.

Well then, put the table cloth on and set the dish down. Go see if you can find Sneak’s band of musicians. Mistress Tearsheet wants to hear some music.

Hurry! The room they ate in was too hot, and they’ll be here any minute.

Sirrah, the Prince and Poins will be here soon. They’re going to put on a couple of our jackets and aprons. Sir John can’t know it’s them. Bardolph came and told me.

Well, there’s going to be hilarity here! What a great scheme!

I’ll see if I can find Sneak.

I swear, sweetheart, you seem to be in a great temporality. Your pulsidge is beating as strongly as you could want, and your color is as red as a rose; truly! But seriously, I do think you’ve drank too much of that sweet wine from the Canary Islands—it’s a mighty powerful drink, and it’ll get into your blood faster than you can say, “What’s this?” How are you feeling now?

Better than I was before. (she coughs or belches)

Well said! A healthy heart is worth its weight in gold. Look, here comes Sir John.

(singing) “When Arthur first in court”—somebody empty the chamber pot! “And was a worthy king”—how are you, Mistress Doll?

She’s sick of a qualm, she is.

That’s how all the women in her profession are. As soon as they’re calm—and not in someone’s bed—they get sick.

You stupid bastard. Is this how you make me feel better?

You make fat bastards, Mistress Doll.

I make them fat? Gluttony and disease will make men fat; I have nothing to do with it.

Well, cooks help create gluttony, by making and selling food—the object of gluttony. And you help create diseases, Doll. We catch them from you, Doll, we catch them from you: admit it.

Sure, sweetheart. You catch us by the chains and the jewels, and then you steal them from us.

“Your brooches, pearls, and gems”—We fight bravely and then come away limping. We retreat from the breach in the wall with our weapons bravely bent. We head off to the doctor, bravely. And then we charge into the loaded chambers again, bravely.

Drop dead, you filthy eel. Drop dead!

I swear, this is how it always is. You two even see each other without fighting. You’re as hot as dry toast, you can’t stand each other’s bad qualities. Good grief! But one of you has to bear the burden, and that’s you, Doll. You’re the weaker sex, the empty vessel.

Can a weak, empty vessel bear the burden of such a huge, full barrel? There’s a whole merchant’s stock of Bordeaux wine in him; you’ve never seen a ship with a fuller cargo hold. Come, Jack, I’ll be friends with you. You’re going off to war, and whether or not I ever see you again—well, who cares.

Sir, Ensign Pistol’s downstairs. He wants to talk with you.

Let him drop dead, that hot-tempered jerk! Don’t let him in: he’s got the foulest mouth in England.

If he’s going to make trouble, don’t let him in. No way; I have my neighbors to think about. I’ll have no troublemakers here. I’ve got my good reputation to watch out for. Shut the doors; no troublemakers are getting in here. I haven’t lived this long to have trouble now. Shut the doors, please.

Do you hear, hostess?

Please, be quiet a second, Sir John. No troublemakers are coming in here.

Didn’t you hear? It’s my ensign.

Oh fiddlesticks, Sir John, I don’t want to hear it. Your Ensign Troublemaker is not coming in here. I talked to Master Tisick, the deputy, the other day. And he said to me—it couldn’t have been longer ago than last Wednesday—“I swear, neighbor Quickly,” he said. (Master Dumbe, the minister, was here at the time.) “Neighbor Quickly,” he said, “only let in people who are well behaved, because,” he said, “your reputation is suffering.” He said that, and I’ll tell you why. “You’re an honest woman, and people think highly of you. So think about who you let in. Don’t let in,” he said, “any troublemakers.” And none are getting in. You’d be lucky if you heard what he said. No way, no troublemakers.

He’s not a troublemaker, hostess. He’s a harmless cheater; you can pet him like a little puppy. He wouldn’t even start a fight with a guinea-hen, if her feathers stood up in annoyance. Get him up here, drawer.

You call him a cheater? I won’t keep an honest man out of this bar, so I won’t keep a cheater out, either. But I don’t like troublemakers, I swear. I get sick when I hear the word, “troublemaker.” Feel, masters: I’m shaking. Look, I’m telling you.

You are shaking.

I am?—I am! I swear, I’m shaking like a big tree leaf. I can’t stand troublemakers.

Good to see you, Sir John!

Welcome, Ensign Pistol. Here, Pistol. I charge you with a glass of wine. Now discharge on the hostess.

I’ll unload two big bullets on her, Sir John.

She’s Pistol-proof, sir. You’ll hardly be able to injure her.

I won’t have any proofs or any bullets. I won’t drink any more than I feel like, not for any man.

Then here’s to you, Mistress. Dorothy, I’ll charge you.

Charge me? Get lost, you sick jerk. What? You broke, rude, scheming, cheating, shirtless fool! Get away from me, you moldy bastard, away! I’m meant for your betters.

I know you, Mistress Dorothy.

Get away, you pickpocket rascal! You dirty thief, away! I swear on this wine, I’ll stick a knife in your rotten cheeks if you keep abusing me like this. Out, you boozy rascal! You imposter of a solider! Since when are you a soldier, I ask you? With two armor tags on your shoulder? I’m sure!

I’ll strangle your neck for that, or I’ll die trying.

Hold it, Pistol. I don’t want you to go off here. Discharge someplace else, Pistol.

No, good Captain Pistol. Not here, sweet captain.

Captain? You horrible, damned liar, aren’t you ashamed to be called “captain”? If captains shared my opinions, they’d beat you for taking their rank without earning it. You, a captain? You bastard, for what? For tearing a poor whore’s clothes in a whorehouse? Him, a captain? Let him drop dead, the rogue! He lives off the moldy food you find in brothels. A captain? For God’s sake! Men like him will make the word “captain” as nasty as the word “occupy,” which was a fine word before it got corrupted. Captains had better watch out.

Please, calm down, good ensign.

Listen here, Mistress Doll.

Not me. I’ll tell you what, Corporal Bardolph, I could tear her. I’ll get revenge on her.

Please, calm down!

I’ll see her damned first. To the waters of hell, I swear, to the endless deep, with chaos and vile tortures. Hold onto that pole, I say. Down, down, dogs! Down, fates! Here’s my sword!

Captain Pisser, be quiet! It’s late. I beg of you, stop being angry!

Now we’re talking! Are we going to let old nags and pampered horses (who can’t manage more than a few miles a day) be compared with kings, and generals, and mythic heroes? No! Damn them to hell, and let the storms rage! Should we fight over nothing?

My goodness, captain! Those are strong words!

You should go now, ensign. This is going to get out of control in a minute.

Let men die like dogs! Give away kings’ crowns like they’re nothing! Isn’t this a sword we have here?

My word of honor, captain, there’s no such thing here! For goodness sake! Do you think I’d say she’s not if she were? For God’s sake, be quiet!

Then eat and grow fat, my sweet lady! Come, bring me some wine. Si fortuna me tormente, sperato me contento. Are we scared of an attack? No! Let the devil open fire. Give me some wine, and darling, lie there. (he lays his sword down) Is the party over? What about the rest of it, the et ceteras?

Pistol, I’d be quiet if I were you.

Sweet knight, I kiss your fist. Look! It’s so late—we can see the Big Dipper out.

For God’s sake, throw him down the stairs. I can’t stand such a worthless jerk.

Throw him down the stairs? Don’t we know a common prostitute when we see one?

Toss him down, Bardolph, like a coin on a game board. He does nothing but talk a bunch of nothing, so he’s going to count for nothing here.

Come on. Get downstairs.

What? Is there going to be cutting now? Shall we be soaked in blood? (he grabs his sword) Then let death sing me a lullaby; let him end my melancholy days! Let grievous, ghastly, gaping wounds unravel the thread of my life, spun by those three sisters of fate! Come, Atropos, cut off my thread!

This ought to be good.

Give me my sword, boy.

Please, Jack, please; don’t fight!

Get downstairs! (he draws his sword and chases PISTOL)

This is going to be some fight! I would sooner close this bar than put up with terrors and fits. It’s murder, I swear! Oh my! Oh my! Put away your naked weapons! Put away your naked weapons!

Please, Jack, calm down; the jerk’s gone. Oh you son-of-a-bitch, brave little bastard, you!

Did he hurt you in the groin? I thought he got in a good shot at your belly.

Did you kick him out of here?

Yup! The jerk’s drunk. You hurt his shoulder.

That jerk! How dare he challenge me!

Oh, you sweet little rogue, you! Oh my, you poor monkey, you’re sweating! Come, let me wipe your face. Come on, you fat bastard. Oh, you rogue! I swear, I love you. You’re as brave as Hector of Troy, you’re worth five Agamemnons, and you’re ten times better than the nine wonders of the world! Oh, you villain!

The no-good jerk! I’ll wrap the rogue in a blanket, the way they punish cowards.

Do it, if you dare. If you do, I’ll toss you between a pair of sheets!

The music is here, sir.

Let them play. Play, sirs. Sit on my knee, Doll. A no-good, bragging jerk! The fool ran from me like quicksilver.

Truly, and you chased him like a church—slowly. You rotten little fat roasting pig! When will you stop fighting all day and thrusting all night, and start to get your body ready for its final resting place?

Quiet, Doll. Don’t talk like a death’s-head. Don’t make me think of my own end.

Sirrah, what’s the Prince like?

He’s a shallow youngster. He would have made a good pantry servant: he would have been great at trimming the crusts off bread.

They say Poins is smart.

Him, smart? Hang him, he’s a baboon! He’s as thick as mustard, and no smarter than a sledgehammer.

Then why does the Prince love him?

Because their legs are the same size, and he likes to play the game of quoits and eat fatty foods; and he’ll play drinking games, like dropping burning candle ends into his drinks. He plays on the see-saw with the boys, and pulls crazy stunts, and curses nicely. And his boots fit nice and smooth, just like the ones painted on the shoe store’s signs. And he doesn’t cause trouble by spilling secrets. He has all kinds of qualities associated with weak minds and healthy bodies, and that’s why the Prince keeps him around: because the Prince is exactly the same. There’s not a hair’s difference between the two of them.

(to POINS) We should cut this fatso’s ears off.

Let’s beat him in front of his whore.

Look at that old geezer having his head scratched like a parrot.

Isn’t it odd that desire lasts so much longer than the ability to perform?

Kiss me, Doll.

Saturn and Venus must be aligned this year! What do you think the astrological tables have to say about that?

And look. That fiery-faced Bardolph is whispering sweet nothings to Quickly, his master’s old confidante.

(to DOLL) You flatter me with your kisses.

I swear, my kisses are heartfelt.

I’m old. I’m old.

I love you more than I could love any ridiculous young man in the world.

What fabric do you want a new skirt made out of? I’ll get paid on Thursday, so you’ll get a new hat tomorrow. Let’s have a happy song. It’s getting late; let’s go to bed. You’ll forget me when I’m gone.

I swear, you’ll make me cry if you talk like that. I won’t wear any beautiful clothing till you return. Well, we’ll see what happens.

Some wine, Francis.

Right away, sir!

What! A bastard son of the King? And aren’t you Poins, his brother?

Your globe, covered with continents of sin! What kind of life are you leading?

A better life than you. I’m a gentleman and you’re just a drawer.

That’s right, sir. And I’m going to draw you out of this room by the ears.

Oh, may God bless you, sir. I swear, welcome to London. God bless that sweet face of yours! Oh Jesus! Have you come from Wales?

You son of a bitch, you insane block of royalty! (indicating DOLL) I swear on this piece of weak flesh and corrupt blood that you’re welcome here!

What? You fat fool! The hell with you!

My lord, if you don’t strike while the iron’s hot, he’ll turn everything into a joke and rob you of your chance for revenge.

You son of a whore, you giant piece of candle wax, you said such horrible things about me just now, in front of this honest, upstanding and well-behaved lady.

May God bless your good heart! She is all that, I swear.

Did you hear me?

Yes. And you knew I was there, right? It’s just like when you ran away at Gad’s Hill : you knew I was the one who beat you, and you made up some story just to irritate me.

No, no, no. Not at all. I had no idea you were there.

Then I’m going to make you confess that you deliberately slandered me. And then I’ll know what to do next.

No slander, Hal. On my honor, no slander.

No? To malign me, and call me a pantry servant and a bread-trimmer, and I don’t know what else?

No slander, Hal.

No slander?

No slander, Ned, in the world, honest Ned, none. I maligned him only to the wicked, so that the wicked wouldn’t fall in love with him. And by doing that, I’ve acted like a good friend and loyal subject, and your father should thank me for it. No slander, Hal, none, Ned. No, truly boys, none.

Now your absolute fear and utter cowardliness has made you wrong this good lady in order to make peace with us. Is she wicked? Is this hostess here wicked? Is your boy here wicked? Or honest Bardolph, whose piety burns in his face? Is he wicked?

Answer, you withered old trunk, answer.

The devil has marked Bardolph as long gone, and his face is Lucifer’s kitchen, where only drunks are served. As for the boy, he may have a good spirit on one shoulder, but the devil on the other is stronger.

And the women?

One of them is in hell already, where she gets poor souls hot. As for the other, I owe her money. If she’s damned for that, I have no idea.

I’m not, I promise you that.

No, I think you’re not. I think you’ve been excused for that. But there’s another charge against you. You serve flesh in this place, and that’s against the law. You’re going to hell for that.

Everybody who serves food does that. What’s wrong with a bite or two of meat during Lent?

You, good lady—

What is it, gracious sir?

He may speak to you graciously, but his body feels otherwise.

Who’s knocking so loudly on the door? Francis, go see.

Peto, how are you? What’s going on?

Your father the King is in Westminster. Twenty exhausted messengers have arrived from the north. And, on my way here, I met a dozen captains, hustling and working hard, knocking on the door of every tavern and searching for Sir John Falstaff.

My God, Poins, I feel terrible wasting precious time on this idleness when a huge black storm is brewing, soon to open up on our bare, vulnerable heads. Give me my coat and my sword. Good night, Falstaff.

Now’s the sweetest part of the night, and we have to leave without enjoying it.

More knocking!

What’s going on? What’s the matter?

You have to go to the royal court immediately, sir. A dozen captains are at the door waiting for you.

(to the PAGE) Pay the musicians, Sirrah. Goodbye, waitress. Goodbye, Doll. See, wenches, how wanted we valuable men are? The good-for-nothing may sleep when the man of action is needed. Farewell, good wenches. If I’m not sent away immediately, I’ll come see you again before I go.

I can’t speak; my heart is ready to burst. Well, sweet Jack, take care of yourself.

Farewell, farewell.

Well, goodbye. I’ve known you twenty-nine years this June. But a more honest, more good-hearted man—well, fare you well.

(offstage) Mistress Tearsheet!

What’s the matter?

(offstage) Mistress Tearsheet, come to my master.

O, run, Doll, run; run, good Doll. Come.—She’s coming, all crying and blubbering.—Will you come, Doll?

Call the earls of Surrey and Warwick. Tell them to read over these letters before they come, and to think carefully about them. Hurry.

Thousands of even my poorest subjects are sleeping right now. Oh sleep! Oh sweet sleep, nature’s gentle healer, what have I done to frighten you? You won’t weigh down my eyelids anymore, or dull my mind to make me forget. Sleep, why do you lie in filthy hovels, stretched out on uncomfortable cots, where insects’ buzzing is the lullaby? Why don’t you lie in the sweet-smelling bedrooms of kings, under opulent canopies, lulled with soft and beautiful music? You drowsy god, why do you lie with the common people in their loathsome beds, leaving the royal bed lonely like a sentry post, or a bell tower? Will you even close the eyes of a ship boy, high up on the whirling mast, and rock him gently in a cradle made of rough, tossing seas and howling winds—winds which take the waves and, curling them over, crashes them through the air with such a deafening noise that they wake death itself? Can you, oh unfair sleep, give rest to a drenched little sailor in the midst of such roughness, and yet deny it to a king? A king on the calmest, stillest night, with everything available for sleep? Then, you happy commoners, put yourselves to bed. The head that wears the crown sleeps uneasily.

Good morning, your highness.

Is it morning, lords?

It’s after one o’clock.

Well, then, good morning to you all, my lords. Have you read the letters I sent you?

We have, your highness.

Then you can tell how sick the kingdom is. There are serious diseases spreading through its body, very near its heart.

The body’s only out of sorts. It can be brought back to full health through good care and some medicine. Northumberland will soon be suppressed.

Oh God! If only we could read the book of destiny! We’d see how time changes everything, bringing mountains low and melting the land—which is tired of being solid and firm—into the sea. We’d see how the beach is sometimes too wide for even the tide to conquer. We’d see how blind luck can make mockeries of men, and how change can affect you in countless ways. If even the happiest youth could read this book, he’d look at the course of his life—the dangers he’s endured, the challenges that still lie ahead—and he’d shut that book, sit down and die. It was less than ten years ago that Richard and Northumberland loved each other. Then two years later, they were at war. Just eight years ago, Northumberland was the man closest to my heart. Like a brother, he devoted himself to me, dedicating both life and limb to my cause. He even challenged Richard on my behalf. But which of you was there— I think it was you, Warwick—when Richard, his eyes brimming with tears because of Northumberland’s rebellion, spoke these words that now seem prophetic: “Northumberland, you are the ladder that Bolingbroke has climbed to get to the throne.” Although, God knows, it wasn’t my intention then to become king. But the country needed it so badly, I was forced to rise up and become great. “The time will come,” Richard continued, “when this terrible sin, growing in size, will break out into corruption.” That’s how he went on. He predicted our current condition, and the collapse of our alliances.

There is a chronicle for every man’s life, which shows what happened to him in times now past. If you study that chronicle, you can prophecy what lies ahead with some accuracy. The seeds of things to come are buried in the things that have already happened. These seeds grow, and become the children of time. King Richard could look at the pattern of what had gone before and predict perfectly that Northumberland’s betrayal—then still a seed—would someday grow larger, if it could find suitable soil to root in. And you’re the only soil it could have found.

Were these things necessary, then? Then we’ll treat them like necessities, even though the very word “necessities” cries out against us. They say the Archbishop and Northumberland have fifty thousand men in their army.

That can’t be, my lord. Rumor, like an echo, doubles the size of our enemy’s army. Please, your highness, go to bed. I swear on my soul that the army you’ve already sent out can win this battle easily. And here’s more good news: I’ve heard for sure that Glendower is dead. You’ve been ill for two weeks now, your majesty. Keeping such irregular hours will surely make things worse.

I’ll listen to your advice. And once we’ve got this civil war in hand, we will, my friends, march to the Holy Land.

Come on, come on, come on, sir. Shake my hand, sir, shake my hand. You’re an early riser, I swear. How are you, cousin Silence?

Good morning, cousin Shallow.

And how’s my cousin, your wife? And your prettiest daughter, my fair god-daughter Ellen?

I’m afraid she’s got dark hair, cousin Shallow!

By gum, I bet William’s become a real scholar. He’s still at Oxford, right?

He sure is, and I’m the one who’s paying for it.

He’ll be going to law school soon. I studied law at Clement’s Inn, where I think they still talk about crazy old Shallow.

You were known as lusty Shallow back then, cousin.

I was known as anything, I swear. And I would have done anything too, and all the way, too. I was there, and little John Doit from Staffordshire, and black-haired George Barnes, and Francis Pickbone, and Will Squele, from the Cotswolds. Since then, no law college

in the world has seen four swashbucklers like us. And let me tell you this: we knew where to find the highest-quality whores, and the best of them were at our beck and call. At that time, Jack Falstaff, now Sir John, was just a boy. He worked as a page for Thomas Mowbray, the Duke of Norfolk.

Do you mean the same Sir John that’s coming here soon to recruit soldiers?

The same Sir John, the very same. I saw him beat Skogan upon the head when he was a little tyke, not this high. The same day, I had a fight with a guy named Sampson Stockfish. He sold fruit behind Gray’s Inn. Jesus, Jesus! I’ve had some crazy times! To think that so many of my old pals are dead!

We’ll all follow them, cousin.

Right you are, very right. That’s for sure, that’s for sure. Death, as the Psalms say, is certain. Everyone dies. How much are they getting for good young bulls at the Stamford county fair?

Truly, I wasn’t there.

Death is certain. Is old Double from your hometown still alive?

Dead, sir.

Jesus, Jesus, dead! He was a good archer, and dead! He could fire one heck of a shot. John of Gaunt loved him, and used to wager on his shooting. Dead! He could hit a target from two hundred and forty yards, and he could shoot a straight arrow two hundred and eighty yards—maybe even two hundred and ninety. That was something to see. How much are they getting for twenty ewes?

Depends on the quality. Twenty good ewes could be worth ten pounds.

And old Double’s dead?

Here come two of Sir John Falstaff’s men, I think.

Good morning, gentlemen.

If you don’t mind, which of you is Judge Shallow?

I’m Robert Shallow, sir, a poor landowner in this county, and one of the King’s justices of the peace. How can I help you?

My captain sends his regards. My captain, Sir John Falstaff. He’s a valiant gentleman, I swear, and a brave leader.

It’s great to hear from him. I knew him to be a good fencer. How’s the good knight doing? And, if you don’t mind my asking, how’s his wife?

I beg your pardon, sir. A soldier has no need for a wife; he is well enough accommodated.

Well said, I swear, sir. Well said. “Well enough accommodated!” That’s good. That’s very good. Good turns of phrase deserve to be praised. “Accommodated!” It comes from the Latin, “accommodo.” Very good. That’s a good turn of phrase.

Excuse me, sir. I’ve heard the word. You call it a turn of phrase? I don’t know anything about phrases, but I’ll fight for the word. It’s a good, soldier-like word; a word with many uses, to be sure. “Accommodated.” You can say that a man is accommodated when he has been furnished with supplies. And you can also say that a man is being accommodated when he’s, you know, being accommodated. Which is an excellent thing.

It certainly is. Look, here comes good Sir John. Let me shake your hand; let me shake your hand, sir. I swear, you look good, like you haven’t aged a day. Welcome, good Sir John.

I’m glad to see you’re well, Master Robert Shallow. And this is Master Surecard, isn’t it?

No, Sir John. It’s my cousin Silence. Like me, he’s also a justice of the peace.

Master Silence. Your name suits a justice of “the peace.”

Welcome, sir.

Damn! It’s hot out, gentlemen. Have you found half a dozen able-bodied men for me?

Yes sir, we have. Won’t you sit?

Let me see them, please.

Where’s the list? Where’s the list? Where’s the list? Let’s see, let’s see, let’s see. Right, right. Yes, sir: Ralph Mouldy! Let them come when I call. Let them do that, let them do that. Let’s see. Where’s Mouldy?

Here, sir.

What do you think, Sir John? He’s got good muscles. Young, strong, and well-connected.

Are you Mouldy?

Yes, sir.

Well then, it’s about time you were put to use.

Ha, ha, ha! Excellent, I swear! Things that don’t get used enough do indeed become moldy. Good one, I swear. Well said, Sir John, very well said.

Prick him.

I’ve already been pricked well enough, thanks. You could have left me alone. My old lady’s in trouble now: she won’t have anyone to do her husbandry or her housework. You didn’t have to prick me; there are abler men than me.

That’s enough; quiet, Mouldy. You’re going. Mouldy, it’s time you were put to use.

Put to use?

Quiet, man, quiet. Step aside. Don’t you know where you are? Now the next, Sir John. Let’s see. Simon Shadow!

Now you’re talking. I’d like to sit under him. He’ll be a cool soldier.

Where’s Shadow?

Here, sir.

Shadow, whose son are you?

My mother’s son, sir.

Your mother’s son? Probably, and you got your father’s name. The woman’s son is a portrait of the father; yes, that’s usually the case, though the son is little more than a dim copy, without any of the father’s true substance.

Do you like him, Sir John?

Shadow will be useful in the summer. Prick him, too. We’ll need him, for there are a lot of shadows filling up this roster.

Thomas Wart!

Where’s he?

Here, sir.

Is your name Wart?

Yup.

You’re a pretty ragged wart.

Should I prick him on the list, Sir John?

Not necessary. For look: his clothing is just a bunch of pieces sewn together, and his whole body rests on legs as skinny as pins. He’s been pricked enough by pins and needles—don’t prick him anymore.

Ha, ha, ha! You are funny, sir. You are funny. I’ve got to hand it to you. Francis Feeble!

Here, sir.

What kind of work do you do, Feeble?

I’m a woman’s tailor, sir.

Should I prick him, sir?

You might as well. But if he had been a man’s tailor, he would have already pricked you with his pins. Will you make as many holes in the enemy’s armor as you have in women’s underwear?

I’ll do my best, sir. I can’t do any more.

Well said, good woman’s tailor! Well said, courageous Feeble! You’ll be as brave as the angriest dove or the most valiant mouse. Prick the woman’s tailor. A big one, Master Shallow; a deep one, Master Shallow.

I wish Wart were going, sir.

And I wish you were a man’s tailor. You could have mended his clothes and made him fit to go. I can’t make him a private soldier when he’s already the leader of thousands—of lice, that is. But never mind, oh forcible Feeble.

Never mind, sir.

I like you, good Feeble. Who’s next?

Peter Bullcalf from the village green!

Oh yeah. Let’s see Bullcalf.

Here, sir!

My God! What a great man! Prick Bullcalf until he shouts again.

Oh Lord! My lord, good Captain—

What, you’re yelling before you’ve even been pricked?

Oh Lord, sir! I’m a sick man.

What disease do you have?

A nasty cold, sir. A cough, sir. I caught it when I was ringing the church bells in honor of the King’s coro-nation.

Then you’ll go to war in a dressing gown. We’ll get rid of your cold, and I’ll give orders for some of my men to ring the bells for you while you’re away. (to SHALLOW) Is this everybody?

We’ve got two more here than you need. You can have four, sir. Now, come inside and eat lunch with me.

I’ll have a drink with you, but I can’t stay to eat. But I’m truly glad to see you, Master Shallow.

Oh, Sir John, do you remember the time we spent all night in the windmill in St. George’s field?

Don’t go there, Master Shallow. Don’t go there.

Ha! That was a fun night. Is Jane Nightwork still alive?

She’s alive, Master Shallow.

She never could stand me.

Never, never. She always said she couldn’t stand Master Shallow.

Truly, I could anger her to the core. She was a good-looking wench then. Does she still look good?

Old, old, Master Shallow.

Well, she must be old. She’s got no choice but to be old. Of course she’s old. She gave birth to Robin Nightwork, the son of old man Nightwork, before I even got to Clement’s Inn.

That’s fifty-five years ago.

Ha, cousin Silence, if only you’d seen what this knight and I have seen! Ha! Am I right, Sir John?

We’ve seen the clock strike midnight, Master Shallow.

We sure have, we sure have, we sure have. I swear, Sir John, we sure have. Our slogan was “Down the hatch, boys!” Come, let’s have lunch, let’s have lunch. Jesus, the things we’ve seen! Come, come.

Good Master Corporate Bardolph, be my friend. Here are some French crowns for you, worth four Harry ten shillings. I’m telling you, sir, I’d just as soon be hanged as go fight. It’s not that I care about my well-being. It’s just that I’m not willing to go, and furthermore, I’d like to stay here with my friends. But really, I don’t care about myself.

Whatever. Stand over there.

And, good Master Corporal Captain, for my old lady’s sake, be my friend. She has nobody here to help her do anything once I’m gone. She’s old and can’t do much by herself. I’ll give you forty shillings, sir.

Whatever. Stand over there.

I’ll tell you the truth: I don’t care one way or the other. You only die once, and we all owe God a death. I won’t do anything underhanded. If it’s my fate, it’s my fate. If not, not. No man is too good to serve his country. Whatever happens, happens. If you die this year, you’re paid up for next year.

Well said. You’re a good man.

I’m telling you. I won’t do anything underhanded.

All right, sir. Which men can I have?

Any four you choose.

Sir, may I have a word with you? (whispers to FALSTAFF) I’ve gotten three pounds to free Mouldy and Bullcalf.

No kidding. Great.

Come on, Sir John, which four do you want?

You pick.

All right, then. Mouldy, Bullcalf, Feeble, and Shadow.

Mouldy and Bullcalf. Mouldy, you stay home till you’re too old to fight. And as for you, Bullcalf, wait till you’ve reached fighting age. I don’t want either of you.

Sir John, Sir John. Don’t make a mistake. They’re the best men of the bunch, and I want you to have only the best.

Master Shallow, are you going to tell me how to choose a soldier? Do you think I care about a man’s body, strength, height, bulk, and overall size? Give me his spirit, Master Shallow! Take a look at Wart. You see how ragged he looks? He can load and fire steadily—as steadily as a tinsmith’s hammer. He can advance and regroup fast—faster than a brewer’s delivery pail can be refilled. And this skinny guy, Shadow—give me this man. He offers no target to the enemy. The enemy might as well try aiming at a knife’s edge. And as for retreating, Feeble, the woman’s tailor, will run faster than you can imagine. Oh, give me the spare men and spare me the great ones! Bardolph, give Wart a musket.

Here you go, Wart. Present arms! Right shoulder, arms! Left shoulder, arms!

Come on, handle your weapon. Yes, good. Very good. Very, very good. Oh, give me a little, skinny, old, dried-out, bald rifleman any day. Good job, Wart. You’re a good scab of a guy. Wait, here’s a tester for you.

He’s no expert. He’s not doing it right. I remember up at Mile-End Park, when I was at Clement’s Inn—I played the fool in the archery pageant. There was a nimble little guy, and he would handle his weapon like this, and he would run all over the place, and he’d charge and charge. “Rat-a-tat tat,” he’d say. “Bang!” he’d say. Then he’d run away, then come back. I never saw anybody like him.

These guys will be fine, Master Shallow. God bless you, Master Silence—I won’t say much to you. Farewell, gentlemen, and thank you. I have to march twelve miles tonight. Bardolph, give the soldiers uniforms.

God bless you, Sir John. May God bring you good luck, and bring us peace. When you come back, pay us a visit. Let’s renew our old friendship. Maybe I’ll even come with you to the royal court!

I swear, I wish you would, Master Shallow.

I meant what I said. May God keep you.

Farewell, gentle gentlemen.

March, Bardolph. Lead the men away.

When I come back, I’ll expose these judges for the frauds that they are. I can see through this Judge Shallow. Lord, Lord; we old men sure know how to tell lies! This dried-up old judge has done nothing but go on and on to me about how wild he was when he was as a youth, and how many stunts he pulled in the seedy parts of town. Every third word he speaks is a lie, and he’ll tell lies quicker than a Turk will scramble to pay the sultan. I remember him at Clement’s Inn: he looked like a man someone carved after dinner out of a scrap of cheese. When he was naked he looked like a mandrake root, with a fanciful head someone had carved in with a knife. He was so skinny that he was invisible to any man with imperfect vision; he truly was the embodiment of starvation. But he was as horny as a monkey: the whores called him “mandrake,” because mandrake stimulates the sex drive. He was always a little bit behind the times. He would hear the wagon drivers sing their songs, and then he’d go to his worn-out whores and sing them what he’d heard, pretending he had written them himself. And now this vile stick has become a landowner, and he talks about John of Gaunt like he was his own brother. I swear, he only saw Gaunt once, and that was in the arena at the jousting tournament; John of Gaunt cut Shallow’s head with his sword. I saw it all, and I told John of Gaunt that he had beaten his own name, since Shallow was such a gaunt man back then. You could fit him and all his clothes into the skin an eel sheds. An instrument case was as huge as a mansion to him, as big as a courtroom. Now he has land and livestock. Well, I’ll be his friend if I come back. He won’t like it, but I’ll turn him into an unending source of wealth for myself. If small fish can be bait for big fish, I see no reason why I can’t snap my jaws at Shallow. Time will tell, and that’s all I have to say about that.

What’s the name of this forest?

Gaultree Forest, your grace.

Stop here, sirs. Send out scouts to find out how many soldiers our enemy has.

We’ve already done that.

Well done. My friends and brothers in this great undertaking, I have to share with you that I’ve received new letters from Northumberland. They have a chilling purpose, tone, and content. He says that he wishes he could be here in person, with an army as strong someone of his rank should have, but he couldn’t raise one. So he’s going to go to Scotland to increase his power. He prays that your armies will prevail against the terrible power of the enemy.

And with that, any hope we had for him is thrown to the ground and dashed to pieces.

What’s happening?

The enemy is west of this forest, and less than a mile away. They look powerful, and, from the amount of space they’re taking up, I’d say they have close to thirty thousand soldiers.

That’s exactly the number we thought they had. Let’s march ahead and engage them in battle.

Who’s this well-equipped leader coming here to confront us?

I think it’s Lord Westmoreland.

Our general, the Prince Lord John of Lancaster, sends greetings and wishes you good health.

Speak in peace, Lord Westmoreland. What’s the reason you’ve come here?

The most important part of my message is for you, your grace. You, who are a holy man, and these good gentlemen as well—you would not be here, lending dignity to this bloody insurrection, if it appeared as rebellion normally does: like a lowborn mob, led by bloody youths uniformed in rags, and supported by boys and beggars. You, Lord Archbishop—whose diocese is peaceful and law-abiding; whose beard has turned white, signifying a peaceful life; whose education and learning are the products of peaceful times; who is the dove and very blessed embodiment of peace—why are you translating yourself from the graceful language of peace into the harsh, violent language of war? You’re turning your books into coffins, your ink into blood, your pens into swords, and your holy words into a trumpet that sounds a call to arms.

Why am I doing this? That is the question. The short answer is this: we’re all sick. We’ve eaten and drunk too much and stayed up all night, and now we have a burning fever whose only cure is bloodletting. Richard, our late King, was infected with this disease and died from it. But, my good Lord Westmoreland, I’m not here as a physician, nor am I marching with this army as an enemy of peace. What I’m doing is making a frightening show of war, to stop people from indulging all their vices. This will clear the hardening of the arteries which threatens to kill us all. Let me speak more plainly. I’ve carefully considered the options, weighing the harm our armies are likely to cause against the harm we’re already suffering, and I find that our grievances are stronger than our offenses. We can see where things are headed, and the rough times ahead leave us with no choice but to step away from our quiet lives. We have a list of grievances which we can publish at the appropriate time. We offered that list to the King a long time ago, but we could never get an audience with him. We were wronged, and when we tried to speak to the King about it, we were denied access to him by the very men who had wronged us most. We’re in this seemingly unbefitting armor because of the terrible recent violence—the bloodshed from which is still visible on the ground—and because of the terrible things happening now, every minute. We don’t want to harm peace in any way. We want instead to establish a peace that’s real and meaningful.

When was your request to see the King denied? How has the king harmed you? What lord in the King’s court has been sent out to do you wrong? And why would you put your holy stamp of approval on an illegal uprising and give religious blessing to a violent civil war?

The grievances borne by my fellow Englishmen, and the cruel murder of Scroop, my own brother: these are the reasons I’ve made this fight my own.

There’s no need for any repayment like that; and even if there were, you should not be the person to benefit.

Why shouldn’t he benefit at least a little? Why shouldn’t we all benefit, who suffered in these recent battles, and who have allowed our honor to be damaged by the terrible things happening now?

Oh, my good Lord Mowbray, if you think about what is necessary in times of war, you’ll see that it is the situation that harms you, and not the King himself. But as for you in particular, it seems to me that you have no foundation on which to build a quarrel with either the King or your current situation. Wasn’t the entire estate of the Duke of Norfolk, your father, just given back to you?

What did my father lose that I now need to restore? Richard, the King at the time, loved my father, but given what was happening he had no choice but to banish him. And then, at Coventry, my father and Harry Bolingbroke met in a formal challenge. They were both mounted on their horses and ready to charge. Their horses were neighing, anxiously waiting for their riders’ spurs to drive them forward. Their steel-tipped lances were ready for the attack. The visors of their helmets were down. Their eyes were on fire behind the steel slits. The trumpet sounded, and then—when there was nothing that could have stopped my father from killing Bolingbroke—the King prevented the fight by throwing down his royal scepter. That scepter was a symbol of his life; when he threw it down, he threw down his life and the lives of every man that has since died at war under the leadership of Bolingbroke.

You don’t know what you’re talking about, Lord Mowbray. Bolingbroke at the time was considered the bravest gentleman in England. Who knows who would have won that fight? But even if your father had won, he never would have made it out of Coventry. The whole country hated him, and they loved and prayed for Bolingbroke. They blessed him and adored him even more than the King. But I digress. I was sent here by our general, the Prince, to hear your grievances, and to tell you that he’s prepared to listen to you. If it appears that your demands are legitimate, he’ll give you what you want—except for those things which might suggest that you’re his enemies.

But he’s made us force him to listen to us. His offer isn’t motivated by love; it’s a political move.

Mowbray, you’re out of line to think that. His offer is made out of mercy, not fear. Just look, you can see our army from here. I give you my word of honor: that army is so confident, it won’t even allow the thought of fear to enter. Our army has more important people than yours, and better soldiers; our armor is every bit as strong as yours, and our cause is better. It’s only logical that we should be as courageous as you are. So don’t say you’ve forced the Prince to do anything at all.

Well, I say we won’t agree to any conference.

That just proves that what you’re doing here is shameful. A rotten container falls apart at the touch; likewise, a rotten cause cannot withstand scrutiny and argument.

Has the King given Prince John his full authorization to listen to our complaint, and address it in any way the Prince sees fit?

That goes without saying. I’m amazed you’d even ask such a foolish question.

Then, Lord Westmoreland, take this document. It lists our grievances. If each complaint listed here is addressed, and if everyone on our side, both here and elsewhere, is granted a full pardon and immediate satisfaction of our demands, then we’ll return to our own boundaries again and work together for the cause of peace.

I’ll show this to the general. Please, let’s meet at a place where both our armies can see us. Then either let our talks end in peace—God willing!—or let us take the fight to the battlefield where it will be decided.

My lord, we will do so.

Something in my heart tells me that no peace we agree to could possibly last.

Don’t worry about that. If we can come to terms that are as comprehensive as the ones we’re insisting upon, then the peace will be as durable as rocky mountains.

Yes, but in the future the King will think so poorly of us that every little slight, every false accusation, every tiny, silly, frivolous thing will seem to him to be a revival of this rebellion. Even if we were as devoted to the King as martyrs are to their causes, he’ll regard us so skeptically that even the good things we do for him won’t count; he won’t be able to distinguish them from the bad.

No, no, sir. Listen, the king is tired of getting upset over every little thing. He’s discovered that ending one problem by killing someone only creates two bigger problems in the people left alive. So from now on, he’ll wipe his memory clean, and forget anything that might remind him of the bad things from his past. He knows that he can’t just eliminate every single opponent who crops up. His enemies are rooted in with his friends, to the extent that, if he tries to pull up an enemy, he’ll also uproot and discard a friend. This country’s like a misbehaving wife, who, just when her husband is about to hit her, holds his baby up, and freezes the intended punishment in the very arm that was poised to apply it.

Besides, the King has expended all his energy for punishment on the recent rebellion. He has nothing left to punish with. His power is like a lion with no teeth: it can threaten, but it can’t do any harm.

That’s true. Rest assured, my good Lord Marshal, if our reconciliation is sincere, then peace will be like a broken bone, which grows stronger for having once been broken.

I hope so. Lord Westmoreland is back.

The Prince is nearby. If you will, please meet him at a spot halfway between our two armies.

Your grace, Archbishop of York, go forward in God’s name.

Lead on, and greet his highness. (to WESTMORELAND) Sir, we’re on our way.

I’m glad to see you, my cousin Mowbray. Good day to you, gentle Archbishop, and to you, Lord Hastings, and to all. Lord Archbishop, it was better to see you when worshippers—called together by the church bell—surrounded you to hear Biblical sermons than it is to see you here, in armor; cheering a mob of rebels with your war drums, turning your words to weapons, and your life into death. When a man is close to the King’s heart, and grows strong under the King’s protection, only to turn against him—alas! What evils that man will unleash, hidden from view by the King’s own reputation! This is exactly how it is with you, Lord Bishop. Who hasn’t heard how profound your religious knowledge is? To us, you were our representative in God’s own parliament. To us, you might as well have been God’s own voice: the interpreter and ambassador between God’s heavenly ways and our own dull, mortal actions. And now, who would say anything but that you are abusing the holiness of your position, using the outward show of godliness to do terrible things, like a treacherous courtier uses the King’s good name? You have pretended to be acting in God’s name as you encourage the subjects of God’s deputy, my father, to rise up against the peace of both heaven and the King.

Good Lord of Lancaster, I am not here as an enemy your father’s peace. But, as I told Westmoreland, these tumultuous times have forced us to behave in these monstrous ways, out of common sense and a regard for our own safety. I sent you a detailed list of our grievances, but you angrily shoved it aside. That’s why this Hydra of a war has broken out. You can get rid of it by agreeing to the just and right things we demand. If you do that, this disease of war will be cured, and the monster will bow at your feet, tame and obedient.

If you don’t, we’re ready to fight to the last man.

And if those of us who are here should fail, we have reinforcements standing by. If they fail, they have reinforcements to back them up, and in this way the fight will go on from father to son for all time until England itself has no more new generations.

You’re not wise enough, Hastings, not wise enough at all to see into eternity.

Your highness, why not tell them directly what you think of their list of grievances.

I agree with all of them, and I admit that they’re legitimate. I swear, on my family’s honor: my father’s intentions have been misunderstood, and some of his subordinates have overstepped their authority in executing his orders. (to ARCHBISHOP) Sir, we will make good on the wrongs that have been done to you, I swear on my soul. If this pleases you, then disperse your armies and send them back where they came from; we shall do the same. And here, where both armies can see us, we’ll embrace and drink a friendly toast to one another. The soldiers will go home with evidence that we’re friends once again.

I’ll take your word as a prince that you’ll make good on these things.

I give you my word, and I’ll keep it. And with that, I drink a toast to you.

Go, captain. Tell the army this news of peace. Pay them, and send them away. I know it will make them happy. Hurry, captain.

Here’s to you, good Lord Westmoreland.

I drink to your grace. If you knew how hard I’ve worked to bring about this peaceful resolution, you’d really drink up. But my love for you will be more apparent from now on.

I don’t doubt it.

I’m glad. And here’s to your health, my gentle cousin Lord Mowbray.

You wish me good health at a very good moment, because for some reason I’m suddenly feeling ill.

Men are always merry in the face of bad situations, but a heavy heart predicts a happy event.

So be happy, kinsman. A sudden feeling of melancholy is just a sign that says, “Something good is coming tomorrow.”

Believe me, I’m in really good spirits.

Which is not a good thing, if your own rule is correct.

The news of peace has been announced. Listen to them shout!

They sound like they are cheering a victory.

Peace is a victory of sorts: both sides stop fighting honorably, but neither loses.

Go and disperse our army, too, Lord Westmoreland.

Good Archbishop, let’s have both our troops march past us here so that we can see the men we would have fought against.

Go, Lord Hastings, and have them march past before they’re dismissed.

I hope, sirs, that we’ll spend tonight in the same camp.

Cousin, why is our army still standing?

The leaders have orders from you to stand fast, and they won’t disperse until they hear you give the order.

They know how to follow orders.

Our army is already dispersed. They’ve headed off to the east, west, north, and south like young bulls whose yokes have been removed. The men are like children after school, each hurrying toward their homes or the playground.

That’s good news, Lord Hastings. And hearing it, I now arrest you, traitor, for high treason. And you, Archbishop, and you, Lord Mowbray. I arrest you both for capital treason.

Is this action just and honorable?

Was your rebellion just and honorable?

Will you break faith with us like this?

I never promised you my faith. I promised to make good on the grievances you complained of. And, on my honor, I will do that as carefully as possible. But now, you rebels will get exactly what you deserve for the things you’ve done. You raised armies over nothing, brought them here stupidly, and then foolishly sent them away. Bang on our drums! Capture the soldiers who are scattering away. God, not we, has fought today and won. Guards, escort these traitors to the place of their death. That’s where treason belongs, and where they’ll draw their last breath.

What’s your name, sir? What’s your rank, and where are you from?

I am a knight, sir. My name is Coleville of the Valley.

Well, then, Coleville is your name, your rank is knight, and the valley is where you’re from. Coleville will still be your name now that “traitor” is your rank, and the dungeon is where you’ll be. It’s a place so deep that you’ll still be in a kind of valley.

Aren’t you Sir John Falstaff?

I’m as good a man as Falstaff, whoever I am. Will you surrender? Or am I going to have to break a sweat making you surrender? If I sweat, the drops will be the tears of your loved ones, weeping over your death. So you’d better get scared and start to shake, and start praying to me for mercy.

I think you are Sir John Falstaff, and so I surrender.

My enormous belly can speak in many languages, and each language proclaims my name and my name alone. If I had a moderately sized belly, all I’d be is an anonymous but very successful soldier. But my belly, my belly, my belly blows my cover. Here comes the general.

The danger’s over: let’s stop here.

Call off the operation, Westmoreland.

Falstaff, where have you been all this time? When everything is over, that’s when you start. This habit of laziness of yours will bust a gallows to bits one of these days, mark my words.

I’m sorry to hear you say that: I never realized that brave behavior should be rewarded with scolding and admonishing. Do you think I’m a bird, or an arrow, or a bullet? With this old, broken-down body, do you think I can move as fast as thought? I’ve gotten here as fast as humanly possible. I’ve burned out more than 180 horses, and—even though I’m spent from all that travel—I’ve managed, with my extraordinary bravery, to capture Sir John Coleville of the Valley, a brave knight and terrible enemy. But so what? He simply saw me and surrendered. So I can say, just like Julius Caesar, that “I came, I saw, I conquered.”

He was just being polite; it’s not as if you did something to deserve it.

I don’t know about that. Here he is: I turn him over to you. Please, sir, have it added to the record of things accomplished today. If you don’t, I’ll have a ballad printed about it, with a picture of Coleville kissing my foot on the cover. And if I’m forced to do that, and I don’t make you look like counterfeits next to me, and if my fame doesn’t outshine yours like the full moon outshines the stars (which look like pin pricks in the sky next to the moon)—well then, you can call me a liar. Now give me what I deserve, and let my merits mount on top of each other, in a great pile.

Your pile would be too heavy for me to bear.

Let my merits shine, then.

You’re too dense to shine.

Then let it do something that will do me good, whatever you want to call it.

Is your name Coleville?

It is, sir.

You’re a famous rebel, Coleville.

And a famous and loyal subject captured him.

I’m now in the same situation as my superiors, who led me here. But if I had been in charge, your victory would have cost you more than it has.

I don’t know how much your superiors cost us, but you, like a generous man, gave yourself away for free, and I thank you for it.

Have you called off the troops?

The order to pull back has been given, and the slaughter has been stopped.

Send Coleville and his confederates to York, to be put to death immediately. Blunt, lead him away, and guard him carefully.

And now, let’s get going back to the royal court: I understand that the King, my father, is gravely ill. Send news of our victory ahead of us. (to WESTMORELAND) You, cousin, will bring him this news and comfort him with it. We’ll follow you as quickly as we can.

Sir, please give me permission to go via Gloucestershire. When you get to the court, please vouch for my good work here.

Goodbye, Falstaff. By speaking on your behalf as a prince, I’ll be speaking better of you than you deserve.

I wish you had the wit to accomplish that: it would be worth all your land. My goodness, this young, serious-minded boy doesn’t like me, and no one can make him laugh. But I guess that’s not surprising; after all, he doesn’t drink any wine. None of those prim boys ever amount to anything: weak beer and too many fish dinners makes their blood cool. They all turn anemic, like young girls. And then, when they finally get married, they can only father girls because they don’t have the stuff to produce sons. Non-drinkers are all generally fools and cowards. The rest of us would probably be the same way, except that we’re always drunk. A good sherry wine operates in two ways. First, it rises into the brain and dries out all the foolish, dull, clogged-up fogs that have gathered there. It makes the brain sharp, quick, and inventive; full of nimble, fiery, and beautiful ideas. The voice and tongue give birth to those ideas which, when they grow up, become excellent wit. The second power of good wine is the warming of the blood. Before wine, the blood is cold and sluggish, and this makes the liver—the organ of passion—chilly and pale. A chilly, pale liver is the sign of cowardice and faint-heartedness. But wine warms the blood, making it course from the inner organs to all the extremities. The blood brightens the face, and the rest of the body—which is like a little kingdom in itself—takes that brightening as a signal. Then the spirits of the blood and all the internal organs gather together behind their captain: the heart. The heart draws strength from these followers and, enlarged by them, can accomplish any courageous deed. This is the bravery that comes from wine. Without wine, skill in weaponry doesn’t matter. Wine is what sets that skill in motion. Education is nothing more than idle gold in the devil’s hands, until wine rouses it and puts it to good use. That’s how Prince Harry became valiant. He’s taken the cold blood he inherited from his father and—like unproductive farmland—he fertilized it, planted it, and cared for it, through the hard work of drinking vast amounts of good and potent wine. And so now, he’s become hot and courageous. If I had a thousand sons, the first rule of behavior I would teach them would be to avoid weak drinks, and get themselves addicted to wine.

What is it, Bardolph?

The army is dismissed, and everyone’s gone.

Let them go. I’ll head to Gloucestershire. I’ll visit Master Robert Shallow, Esquire. I’ve already got him under my thumb, as soft as wax. Soon I’ll seal the deal. Let’s go.

Now, my lords: if God grants us a victory in this violent civil war that bleeds at our very doorsteps, I will lead our young people in a greater cause, and fight nothing but holy wars. Our navy is ready, our army is assembled, the leaders who are my subordinates have their orders, and everything is standing by to achieve my main aim. The only drawback is that I’m feeling a little weak. So let’s wait a short while, until the rebels, now on the run, are brought back in line and are made obedient again.

We are sure that you’ll soon enjoy both good health and the rebels’ defeat.

My son Humphrey of Gloucester, where is your brother, Prince Hal?

I think he’s gone hunting at Windsor.

Who’s with him?

I don’t know, father.

Isn’t his brother, Thomas of Clarence, with him?

No, father. He’s here.

What is it you’d like, father?

Only good things for you, Thomas. Why aren’t you with the Prince, your brother? He loves you and you are neglecting him. He cares more about you than any of his other brothers, Thomas; cherish that fact, my boy. After I’m dead, you’ll be in a strong position to help maintain good relations between Prince Hal and his brothers. So don’t ignore him. Don’t turn away his love, and don’t ruin your good relationship with him by seeming cold or distant. He’s kind if he gets his way; he has compassion for others, and he’s generous with charity. But despite all this, once he gets angry, he becomes like a stone. He can be as tempestuous as winter, and can change himself as suddenly as snowflakes at dawn can turn to hail. So watch his temper. When he does something wrong, let him know it—gently, and when he’s in a happy mood. But when he’s ornery, give him room. Wait till his bad mood works itself out, like a beached whale that kills itself by struggling to return to sea. If you can do this, you’ll be a shelter for your friends, and a golden chain that links your brothers together. Once they’re united, the poison of criticism and rumor—which in this day and age is sure to be aimed at them—can’t do them any harm, no matter how explosive and destructive it may be.

I’ll watch over him with as much care and love as possible.

Then why aren’t you with him at Windsor?

He’s not there today. He’s in London.

Who’s with him? Do you know?

Poins, and the usual suspects.

Weeds grow best in the richest soil, and he—like myself at that age—is overrun by them. My sadness, then, cannot end with my death. When I imagine the lawless days and rotten times that you will face when I am dead and sleeping with my ancestors, the blood weeps from my heart. When Hal’s headstrong wildness has free rein; when aggression and passion are his advisors; when he has full opportunity to indulge in his riotous inclinations, then—Oh!—his criminal desires will fly like a bird towards danger and ruin.

Your highness, you’ve got him all wrong. The Prince is only studying his criminal companions, the way one studies a foreign language. In order to truly learn a language, one must learn even the most immodest curse word—which, as you know, is only learned in order to be identified and, thereafter, avoided. So, like vulgar language, the Prince will get rid of his followers when the time is right. Then they’ll live on in his memory as guidelines, by which he’ll judge the conduct of others. In this sense, he’ll change his past bad deeds to good ends.

It’s rare that a bee builds its nest in a dead animal’s carcass. The Prince won’t leave his current company.

Who’s there? Westmoreland?

I wish your highness good health, and happy news beyond the report I have to deliver! Prince John sends his respects: Mowbray, the Archbishop, Hastings and the rest are under arrest. There are no more rebels anywhere; the olive branch of peace has been extended everywhere. Here’s a letter explaining what happened. When you have time, you can read it and learn every detail.

Oh Westmoreland; you’re like a summer bird, which sings the dawn in as winter ends.

Look, here’s more news.

May heaven protect your highness from all enemies—and when they do rise up, may they fall just like the ones I’ve come to tell you about. The Earl of Northumberland and Lord Bardolph, with their mighty armies of Englishmen and Scotsmen, were defeated by the Sheriff of Yorkshire. This letter will tell you the details.

Why am I sick at this good news? Why can’t life ever bring you things with their appropriate complements? Why is good news so often conveyed in ugly terms? Life either gives you hunger but no food—which is the experience of poor, healthy people—or it gives you a feast with no appetite—which is how the rich live, who have wealth and abundance but cannot enjoy it. I should be celebrating this good news, and yet my eyesight is failing, and my brain is delirious. Oh God! Come to me, I’m very sick.

Take care, your highness!

Oh, my royal father!

My lord, feel better; take courage.

Wait a minute, princes. You know his highness has these episodes all the time. Move away from him. Give him air; he’ll be all right soon.

No, no, he can’t survive these attacks much longer. His mind’s endless worry and concern have so shaken his body that it can barely hold together.

The people are frightening me. They’ve seen terrible omens: children who seem to have supernatural fathers, and gruesomely deformed infants. The weather is in disarray, as if the calendar discovered some months were fast asleep, and decided to skip over them.

The river has flooded three times, without receding between floods. The old people—those living history books—say that the last time this happened was when our great-grandfather, King Edward, fell ill and died.

Speak more softly, princes: the King is recovering.

These attacks will be the death of him.

Please, carry me into another room. Quietly. Please.

Please be silent, my friends, unless someone can play some restful, whispering music for my exhausted spirit.

Call the musicians in from the other room.

Put the crown here on my pillow.

His eyes are sunken, and he seems very pale.

Less noise, less noise!

Has anybody seen the Duke of Clarence?

I’m here, brother, full of sadness.

What’s going on? Raining inside while it’s dry outside? How’s the King?

Extremely sick.

Has he heard the good news yet? Tell him.

Yes, he heard it, and it affected him deeply.

If he’s sick from joy, then he’ll get better without medicine.

Not so loud, sirs. Prince, speak more quietly. Your father the King is trying to sleep.

Let’s go into the other room.

Will you come with us?

No. I’ll stay here with the King.

Why does the crown lie there on his pillow, when it’s such a troublesome bedfellow? Oh polished aggravation, golden anxiety! You keep the eyelids open wide, to face countless sleepless nights. You sleep with the crown now, father, but you don’t sleep as soundly, or half so deeply, as that man whose head is bound with nothing more than a cheap nightcap, who snores through the night. Oh, you crown! When you pinch the person wearing you, you’re like a great suit of armor worn on a hot day—you burn the person you’re protecting. There’s a feather near my father’s lips, and it’s not moving: if he were breathing, that light, weightless thing would move. My gracious lord! Father! This is a deep sleep indeed—this is a sleep that has removed the golden ring from the heads of many English kings. Father, I owe you tears and a deep grief, and my love, the bonds of family, and a son’s tender feelings will make sure that I pay you lavishly. Your debt to me is this kingly crown, which I am owed as your heir-apparent. (he puts the crown on his head) Look, here it sits, and God will guard it. Even if all the strength in the world were gathered into a single, giant arm, it wouldn’t be able to force this inherited honor from me. I will leave this to my son as you’ve left it to me.

(waking) Warwick! Gloucester! Clarence!

Did you call, sir?

What can we do for you, your highness? How are you feeling?

Why did you leave me alone, sirs?

We left my brother, Prince Hal, here. He decided to sit with you.

The Prince of Wales? Where is he? I want to see him. He’s not here.

This door’s open. He went this way.

He didn’t come through the room we were in.

Where’s the crown? Who took it off my pillow?

When we left, sir, it was here.

The Prince has taken it. Go, find him. Is he in such a hurry that he thinks my sleep is my death? Find him, Lord Warwick. Rebuke him, and bring him here.

Henry’s actions join forces with my illness, and together they will kill me. Sons, look at what things you are. See how quickly blood bonds are broken, once money’s involved. This is what happens to foolish, overly concerned fathers who ruin their sleep with worry, burden their minds with anxiety, and break their bodies with hard work. This is what happens to fathers who amass vast amounts of money, earned in unsavory ways. This is what happens to fathers who have taken care to give their sons good educations, and train them in matters of war. Fathers are like bees, collecting sweet pollen from all the flowers in the world. We pack our thighs full of wax and our mouths full of honey, only to be killed when we return to the hive. This is the bitter fate of the dying father, no matter what he has accumulated in his life.

Where is that impatient man who can’t even wait for his friend, sickness, to put an end to me?

Sir, I found the Prince in the next room, with tears flowing down his cheeks. He looked so sorrowful that a tyrant—who never drank anything but blood—would, upon seeing him, have washed the blood from his knife with tears. He’s on his way.

But why did he take away the crown?

Look, here he comes. Come here, Harry. (to the rest) Leave the room, and leave us here alone.

I never thought I’d hear you speak again.

You thought that because you wished it to be true. I live too long for you; you’re tired of me. Are you so desperate for my throne that you would take the honors of kingship before it’s your time? Oh you foolish youth! You long for power that will end up overwhelming you. Wait a little while. What power I have left is held together so weakly that the lightest breeze would blow it away: my life is fading. You stole something from me that would freely have been yours in just a few hours. On my deathbed, you’ve confirmed all my expectations. All your life you showed that you didn’t love me, and now I will die certain of it. There are a thousand daggers in your thoughts, which you’ve sharpened on your stony heart with the hopes of stabbing me in the little time I have left. What? Couldn’t you endure me for half an hour? Then go and dig my grave yourself, and ring the bells to mark your coronation, not my death. Let all the tears that should be shed on my hearse be drops of holy water to bless your head. Just mix me up with the forgotten dust, and give my body—which gave you life—to the worms. Fire my officers, undo my laws; for now the time has come to jeer at authority. Henry the Fifth is crowned: up with foolishness! Down with decorum! Be gone, all you wise advisers! Assemble lazy apes from every region, and make them the royal court of England! Now, you neighboring countries, get rid of your scum. Do you have a criminal who swears, drinks, dances, parties all night, robs, murders, and commits the oldest sins in the newest ways? Then be happy: that man won’t trouble you any longer. England will paint over his guilt with gold. England will give him a position, honor, power. Because Henry the Fifth has removed the barriers to anarchy: he’s taken the restraining muzzle off the dog of misbehavior, and that wild dog will sink his teeth into the flesh of every decent person. Oh my poor kingdom, sick from this civil war! When all my hard work couldn’t keep disorder at bay, what will you do when disorder becomes your caretaker? Oh, you’ll be a wilderness again, and all the wolves who lived here once will once again be your only citizens.

Oh forgive me, your highness. If it weren’t for these tears—which are impeding my speech—I would have stopped this harsh scolding before you, in your grief, had spoken and before I had listened so long. There’s your crown. May God, who wears the crown eternally, guard it as yours for a long time. If I care for the crown in any way other than as a symbol of your honor and reputation, let me never rise from this kneeling position. It is my deepest and most dutiful feelings which teach my body to bend and bow to you, causing my outer body to reflect my inner feelings. May God be my witness: when I came in here and saw that you weren’t breathing, my blood ran cold. If I’m lying, may I die as the wild youth I was before, and never live to show the dubious world the transformation I have been planning. Coming to see you, thinking you were dead—and being nearly dead myself, just thinking that you were—I spoke to this crown as though it were alive. I scolded it like this: “The worry you’ve caused has eaten my father alive. So you, the best piece of gold, are actually the worst piece of gold. Other gold, perhaps worth less, is more precious, since it at least brings us health when mixed in our drinks. But you—the best, the most honored, the most famous—have consumed the person wearing you.” And as I accused it, I put it on my head, to fight against it as an enemy who’d killed my father before my very eyes. It was the fight of a loyal child. But may God keep it from me forever—making me like the poorest servant bowing down before it in awe and terror—if it in any way made me happy or arrogant, or if any part of me was the least bit pleased to welcome it and the power it brings.

Oh my son, God made you take it from me so that, in pleading your case so beautifully, you would make me love you more! Come here, Harry. Sit by my bed and listen to what I think will be the last advice I ever give. God knows the unusual paths and indirect, crooked ways that led me to this crown. And I know very well how much anxiety it has caused as I’ve worn it. It will fall to you in bitter peace, with better support and stronger approval. The stain of its obtainment dies now, with me. On me, the crown seemed like an honor grabbed with a violent hand, and many people lived to remind me that they had helped me take it. Eventually, those daily reminders grew into war and bloodshed, doing damage to the peace. You can see how much pain it’s caused me as I’ve fought my foes. My entire reign has been like a play, in which we rehash that disagreement. Now my death changes the show. What I bought, you will inherit. You’ll wear the crown by right of succession. But even though you have a firmer claim to the crown than I had, it’s not firm enough. Anger is still fresh, and my former friends—whom you must make into your friends—have only recently been disarmed. It was their power that first got me the crown, and I feared that same power could take me down. To avoid that, I defeated their rebellion, and planned to lead an army to the Holy Land. I thought that, with nothing to occupy themselves, they’d start eyeing me and my crown. Therefore, my Harry, make it your policy to focus the distracted minds of the people with foreign wars. Military actions abroad will make people forget about troubling matters in the past. I’d say more, but my lungs are so worn out that I don’t have the strength to speak. God forgive me for how I came by the crown, and may he grant that you enjoy it in peace.

My gracious lord, you won it, wore it, kept it, then gave it to me. My possession of it must therefore be honest and lawful. And I will work as hard as I can to defend this crown against any man.

Look, look, here comes my son, John of Lancaster.

Health, peace, and happiness to my royal father!

You bring me happiness and peace, John. But health, unfortunately, has flown from this shrunken body. Now that I’ve seen you, I have nothing more to do in this world. Where is Lord Warwick?

Lord Warwick!

Does the room I first collapsed in have a name?

It’s called the Jerusalem Room, your highness.

Praise be to God! That’s where I must die. For years it’s been predicted that I would die in Jerusalem; I foolishly thought that meant the Holy Land. But carry me to that room, and there I’ll lie. In that Jerusalem will Harry die.

By gum, sir, you will not leave tonight. Hey, Davy!

Please excuse me, Master Robert Shallow.

I will not excuse you. You will not be excused. Excuses will not be allowed. No excuse will do. You will not be excused. Hey, Davy!

Here, sir.

Davy, Davy, Davy, Davy, let’s see, Davy, let’s see, Davy, let’s see. Oh yes, right: tell William the cook to come here. Sir John, you will not be excused.

Well sir, here’s the thing. Those warrants couldn’t be served. And once more, sir, should we plant wheat at the field’s edges?

Plant red wheat, Davy. But as for William the cook—aren’t there any young pigeons?

Yes, sir. Here’s the bill from the blacksmith for horseshoes and plow blades.

Check the figures and then and pay it. Sir John, you will not be excused.

Now, sir, we need some new chain for the bucket. And sir, do you plan to dock William’s pay for the wine he lost at the Hinckley fair?

He’ll pay for that. Some pigeons, Davy; a couple of short-legged hens, a leg of lamb, and any fun little fancy dishes. Tell William the cook.

Is the soldier staying all night?

Yes, Davy. I’ll take good care of him. A friend at court is better than money in your pocket. Take good care of his men, Davy. They’re good-for-nothings, and they’ll bite you.

No worse than they’re bitten, sir. Their clothes are full of lice.

Good one, Davy. Get on with your work, Davy.

Please, sir, rule in favor of William Visor of Woncot in his lawsuit against Clement Perkes of the hill.

Davy, there are a lot of suits against that Visor. That Visor is a good-for-nothing, as best I can tell.

I agree with your honor that he’s a good-for-nothing, but God forbid that a good-for-nothing should be denied a favor when his friend asks for one on his behalf. An honest man can speak for himself, but a good-for-nothing can’t. I’ve worked for you for eight years, sir. If I can’t get you to rule in favor of a good- for-nothing once in a while, then obviously you don’t think very much of me. That good-for-nothing is my good friend, sir. So I ask you, please: rule in his favor.

Stop now; I tell you he won’t be wronged. Now get going, Davy.

Where are you, Sir John? Come, come, come. Take your boots off. Let me shake your hand, Master Bardolph.

I’m glad to see you, your honor.

I thank you with all my heart, Master Bardolph. (to the PAGE) Welcome, you tall fellow. Come, Sir John.

I’ll be right behind you, Master Robert Shallow.

Bardolph, get our horses ready.

If I were cut into pieces, I’d make four dozen bearded broomsticks like this Master Shallow. It’s amazing to see the similarity between his men’s dispositions and his own. They watch him and behave like foolish judges, and he, by associating with them, turns into a judge-like workman. Their spirits are so closely joined by their intimate involvement, they’re like a flock of wild geese that fly in formation. If I needed a favor from Judge Shallow, I would make his men think that I’m a close friend of his. If I needed something from his men, I would flatter Shallow by telling him that no one commands servants better than he does. One thing’s for sure: the behavior of a wise man and that of an idiot are contagious, like diseases. They spread from person to person, which is why people must be careful about the company they keep. I’ll come up with enough material about this Shallow to keep Prince Hal laughing nonstop for a year. That’s how much time it takes for the current fashion to change six times, or for two lawsuits to be completed. He’ll laugh with no intermission. Oh, a lie told with a measure of truth—or a joke told with a serious face—will go far with a young fellow, who has never had his shoulders weighed down by old age or worries. Oh, he’ll laugh until his face looks like a wet coat that was hung poorly—it’ll be all wrinkled from laughter.

(offstage) Sir John!

Coming, Master Shallow! Coming!

What’s happening, my Lord Chief Justice? Where are you going?

How’s the King doing?

Very well. All his worries are ended now.

Not dead, I hope.