PRINCE. That ever this fellow should have fewer words than a parrot, and yet the son of a woman! His industry is upstairs and downstairs; his eloquence the parcel of a reckoning. I am not yet of Percy’s mind, the Hotspur of the north, he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots at a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, “Fie upon this quiet life! I want work.” “O my sweet Harry,” says she, “how many hast thou killed today?” “Give my roan horse a drench,” says he; and answers, “Some fourteen,” an hour after; “a trifle, a trifle.” I prithee, call in Falstaff. I’ll play Percy, and that damned brawn shall play Dame Mortimer his wife. _Rivo!_ says the drunkard. Call in Ribs, call in Tallow. Enter Falstaff, Gadshill, Bardolph and Peto; followed by Francis with wine. POINS. Welcome, Jack. Where hast thou been? FALSTAFF. A plague of all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too! Marry, and amen! Give me a cup of sack, boy. Ere I lead this life long, I’ll sew nether-stocks, and mend them and foot them too. A plague of all cowards! Give me a cup of sack, rogue. Is there no virtue extant? [_Drinks._] PRINCE. Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of butter (pitiful-hearted Titan!), that melted at the sweet tale of the sun’s? If thou didst, then behold that compound. FALSTAFF. You rogue, here’s lime in this sack too: there is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous man, yet a coward is worse than a cup of sack with lime in it. A villanous coward! Go thy ways, old Jack. Die when thou wilt, if manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the Earth, then am I a shotten herring. There lives not three good men unhanged in England, and one of them is fat, and grows old, God help the while, a bad world, I say. I would I were a weaver; I could sing psalms or anything. A plague of all cowards, I say still. PRINCE. How now, wool-sack, what mutter you? FALSTAFF. A king’s son! If I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy subjects afore thee like a flock of wild-geese, I’ll never wear hair on my face more. You, Prince of Wales! PRINCE. Why, you whoreson round man, what’s the matter? FALSTAFF. Are not you a coward? Answer me to that—and Poins there? POINS. Zounds, ye fat paunch, an ye call me coward, by the Lord, I’ll stab thee. FALSTAFF. I call thee coward? I’ll see thee damned ere I call thee coward, but I would give a thousand pound I could run as fast as thou canst. You are straight enough in the shoulders, you care not who sees your back. Call you that backing of your friends? A plague upon such backing! Give me them that will face me.—Give me a cup of sack. I am a rogue if I drunk today. PRINCE. O villain! Thy lips are scarce wiped since thou drunk’st last. FALSTAFF. All is one for that. A plague of all cowards, still say I. [_Drinks._] PRINCE. What’s the matter? FALSTAFF. What’s the matter? There be four of us here have ta’en a thousand pound this day morning.