Prin. Fiue yeares: Berlady a long Lease for the clinking of Pewter. But Francis, darest thou be so valiant, as to play the coward with thy Indenture, & show it a faire paire of heeles, and run from it? Fran. O Lord sir, Ile be sworne vpon all the Books in England, I could finde in my heart Poin. Francis Fran. Anon, anon sir Prin. How old art thou, Francis? Fran. Let me see, about Michaelmas next I shalbe- Poin. Francis Fran. Anon sir, pray you stay a little, my Lord Prin. Nay but harke you Francis, for the Sugar thou gauest me, 'twas a penyworth, was't not? Fran. O Lord sir, I would it had bene two Prin. I will giue thee for it a thousand pound: Aske me when thou wilt, and thou shalt haue it Poin. Francis Fran. Anon, anon Prin. Anon Francis? No Francis, but to morrow Francis: or Francis, on thursday: or indeed Francis when thou wilt. But Francis Fran. My Lord Prin. Wilt thou rob this Leatherne Ierkin, Christall button, Not-pated, Agat ring, Puke stocking, Caddice garter, Smooth tongue, Spanish pouch Fran. O Lord sir, who do you meane? Prin. Why then your browne Bastard is your onely drinke: for looke you Francis, your white Canuas doublet will sulley. In Barbary sir, it cannot come to so much Fran. What sir? Poin. Francis Prin. Away you Rogue, dost thou heare them call? Heere they both call him, the Drawer stands amazed, not knowing which way to go. Enter Vintner. Vint. What, stand'st thou still, and hear'st such a calling? Looke to the Guests within: My Lord, olde Sir Iohn with halfe a dozen more, are at the doore: shall I let them in? Prin. Let them alone awhile, and then open the doore. Poines. Enter Poines. Poin. Anon, anon sir Prin. Sirra, Falstaffe and the rest of the Theeues, are at the doore, shall we be merry? Poin. As merrie as Crickets my Lad. But harke yee, What cunning match haue you made this iest of the Drawer? Come, what's the issue? Prin. I am now of all humors, that haue shewed themselues humors, since the old dayes of goodman Adam, to the pupill age of this present twelue a clock at midnight. What's a clocke Francis? Fran. Anon, anon sir Prin. That euer this Fellow should haue fewer words then a Parret, and yet the sonne of a Woman. His industry is vp-staires and down-staires, his eloquence the parcell of a reckoning. I am not yet of Percies mind, the Hotspurre of the North, he that killes me some sixe or seauen dozen of Scots at a Breakfast, washes his hands, and saies to his wife; Fie vpon this quiet life, I want worke. O my sweet Harry sayes she, how many hast thou kill'd to day? Giue my Roane horse a drench (sayes hee) and answeres, some fourteene, an houre after: a trifle, a trifle. I prethee call in Falstaffe, Ile play Percy, and that damn'd Brawne shall play Dame Mortimer his wife. Riuo, sayes the drunkard. Call in Ribs, call in Tallow. Enter Falstaffe.