FAL. Indeed, you come near me now, Hal; for we that take purses go by the Moon and the seven stars, and not by Phoebus,—he, that wandering knight so fair. And I pr’ythee, sweet wag, when thou art king,—as, God save thy Grace—Majesty I should say, for grace thou wilt have none,—
PRINCE.
What, none?
FAL. No, by my troth; not so much as will serve to be prologue to an egg and butter.
PRINCE.
Well, how then? come, roundly, roundly.
FAL. Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou art king, let not us that are squires of the night’s body be called thieves of the day’s beauty: let us be Diana’s foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the Moon; and let men say we be men of good government, being governed, as the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the Moon, under whose countenance we steal.
PRINCE. Thou say’st well, and it holds well too; for the fortune of us that are the Moon’s men doth ebb and flow like the sea, being governed, as the sea is, by the Moon. As, for proof, now: A purse of gold most resolutely snatch’d on Monday night, and most dissolutely spent on Tuesday morning; got with swearing Lay by, and spent with crying Bring in; now ill as low an ebb as the foot of the ladder, and by-and-by in as high a flow as the ridge of the gallows.
FAL. By the Lord, thou say’st true, lad. And is not my hostess of the tavern a most sweet wench?
PRINCE. As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the castle. And is not a buff jerkin a most sweet robe of durance?
FAL. How now, how now, mad wag! what, in thy quips and thy quiddities? what a plague have I to do with a buff jerkin?
PRINCE.
Why, what a pox have I to do with my hostess of the tavern?
FAL.
Well, thou hast call’d her to a reckoning many a time and oft.
PRINCE.
Did I ever call for thee to pay thy part?
FAL.
No; I’ll give thee thy due, thou hast paid all there.
PRINCE. Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my coin would stretch; and where it would not, I have used my credit.
FAL. Yea, and so used it, that, were it not here apparent that thou art heir-apparent—But I pr’ythee, sweet wag, shall there be gallows standing in England when thou art king? and resolution thus fobb’d as it is with the rusty curb of old father antic the law? Do not thou, when thou art king, hang a thief.
PRINCE.
No; thou shalt.
FAL.
Shall I? O rare! By the Lord, I’ll be a brave judge.
PRINCE. Thou judgest false already: I mean, thou shalt have the hanging of the thieves, and so become a rare hangman.
FAL. Well, Hal, well; and in some sort it jumps with my humour; as well as waiting in the Court, I can tell you.
PRINCE.
For obtaining of suits?
FAL. Yea, for obtaining of suits, whereof the hangman hath no lean wardrobe. ‘Sblood, I am as melancholy as a gib-cat or a lugg’d bear.
PRINCE.
Or an old lion, or a lover’s lute.
FAL.
Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire bagpipe.
PRINCE.
What say’st thou to a hare, or the melancholy of Moor-ditch?
FAL. Thou hast the most unsavoury similes, and art, indeed, the most comparative, rascalliest, sweet young prince,—But, Hal, I pr’ythee trouble me no more with vanity. I would to God thou and I knew where a commodity of good names were to be bought. An old lord of the Council rated me the other day in the street about you, sir,—but I mark’d him not; and yet he talk’d very wisely,—but I regarded him not; and yet he talk’d wisely, and in the street too.
PRINCE. Thou didst well; for wisdom cries out in the streets, and no man regards it.
FAL. O, thou hast damnable iteration, and art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm upon me, Hal; God forgive thee for it! Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing; and now am I, if a man should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked. I must give over this life, and I will give it over; by the Lord, an I do not, I am a villain: I’ll be damn’d for never a king’s son in Christendom.
PRINCE.
Where shall we take a purse tomorrow, Jack?
FAL. Zounds, where thou wilt, lad; I’ll make one: an I do not, call me villain, and baffle me.
PRINCE. I see a good amendment of life in thee,—from praying to purse-taking.
FAL. Why, Hal, ‘tis my vocation, Hal; ‘tis no sin for a man to labour in his vocation.
[Enter Pointz.]
—Pointz!—Now shall we know if Gadshill have set a match. O, if men were to be saved by merit, what hole in Hell were hot enough for him? This is the most omnipotent villain that ever cried Stand! to a true man.
PRINCE.
Good morrow, Ned.
POINTZ. Good morrow, sweet Hal.—What says Monsieur Remorse? what says Sir John Sack-and-sugar? Jack, how agrees the Devil and thee about thy soul, that thou soldest him on Good-Friday last for a cup of Madeira and a cold capon’s leg?
PRINCE.
Sir John stands to his word,—the Devil shall have his bargain;
for he was never yet a breaker of proverbs,—he will give the
Devil his due.
POINTZ.
Then art thou damn’d for keeping thy word with the Devil.
PRINCE.
Else he had been damn’d for cozening the Devil.
POINTZ. But, my lads, my lads, tomorrow morning, by four o’clock, early at Gadshill! there are pilgrims gong to Canterbury with rich offerings, and traders riding to London with fat purses: I have visards for you all; you have horses for yourselves: Gadshill lies tonight in Rochester: I have bespoke supper tomorrow night in Eastcheap: we may do it as secure as sleep. If you will go, I will stuff your purses full of crowns; if you will not, tarry at home and be hang’d.
FAL. Hear ye, Yedward; if I tarry at home and go not, I’ll hang you for going.
POINTZ.
You will, chops?
FAL.
Hal, wilt thou make one?
PRINCE.
Who, I rob? I a thief? not I, by my faith.
FAL. There’s neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee, nor thou camest not of the blood royal, if thou darest not stand for ten shillings.
PRINCE.
Well, then, once in my days I’ll be a madcap.
FAL.
Why, that’s well said.
PRINCE.
Well, come what will, I’ll tarry at home.
FAL.
By the Lord, I’ll be a traitor, then, when thou art king.
PRINCE.
I care not.
POINTZ.
Sir John, I pr’ythee, leave the Prince and me alone: I will lay him down such reasons for this adventure,