Falstaffe.
Marry then, sweet Wagge, when thou art King,
let not vs that are Squires of the Nights bodie, bee call'd
Theeues of the Dayes beautie. Let vs be Dianaes Forresters,
Gentlemen of the Shade, Minions of the Moone, vnder whose countenance we
steale.
Prince Hal.
Thou say'st well, and it holds well too: for the
fortune of vs that are the Moones men, doeth ebbe and
flow like the Sea, beeing gouerned as the Sea is, by the
Moone: as for proofe. Now a Purse of Gold most resolutely
snatch'd on Monday night, and most dissolutely
spent on Tuesday Morning.
Falstaffe.
Yea, thou art Heire apparant. But I prythee sweet Wag,
shall there be Gallowes standing in England when thou
art King?
Falstaffe.
...and resolution thus fobb'd as it is, with the rustie
curbe of old Father Anticke the Law? Doe not thou
when thou art a King, hang a Theefe.
Prince Hal.
No, thou shalt.
Falstaffe.
Shall I? O rare! Ile be a braue Iudge.
Prince Hal.
Thou iudgest false already. I meane, thou shalt
haue the hanging of the Theeues, and so become a rare Hangman
Falstaffe.
O, thou hast damnable iteration, and art indeede
able to corrupt a Saint. Thou hast done much harme vnto
me Hall, God forgiue thee for it. Before I knew thee
Hal, I knew nothing: and now I am (if a man shold speake
truly) little better then one of the wicked. I must giue ouer
this life, and I will giue it ouer: and I do not, I am a
Villaine. Ile be damn'd for neuer a Kings sonne in Christendome.
Prince Hal.
Where shall we take a purse to morrow, Iacke?
Pointz
But my Lads, my Lads, to morrow morning, by
foure a clocke early at Gads hill, there are Pilgrimes going
to Canterbury with rich Offerings, and Traders riding
to London with fat Purses.
Prince Hal.
Well then, once in my dayes Ile be a mad-cap.
Prince Hal.
I know you all, and will a-while vphold
The vnyoak'd humor of your idlenesse:
Yet heerein will I imitate the Sunne,
Who doth permit the base contagious cloudes
To smother vp his Beauty from the world,
That when he please againe to be himselfe,
Being wanted, he may be more wondred at,
By breaking through the foule and vgly mists
Of vapours, that did seeme to strangle him.
Ile so offend, to make offence a skill,
Redeeming time, when men thinke least I will.