The cords, the ladder, or the hangman rather? Wor. Peace, coufin, fay no more. Hot. If he fall in, good night, or fink or swim-a Send danger from the eaft unto the weft, So honour crofs it from the north to fouth, And let them grapple. -O! the blood more ftirs To rouze a lion, than to ftart a hare. North. Imagination of fome great exploit Drives him beyond the bounds of patience, Hot By Heav'n, methinks, it were an eafy leap, To pluck bright honour from the pale-fac'd moon; Or dive into the bottom of the deep, Where fathom-line could never touch the ground, Without corrival all her dignities. But out upon this half-fac'd fellowship! Wor. Thofe fame noble Scots, Hot. I'll keep them all; Fy Heav'n he fhall not have a Scot of them; Wor. You ftart away, And lend no ear unto my purposes; He faid he would not ranfom Mortimer, Wor. Hear you, coufin, a word. Hot All ftudies here I folemnly defy, Save how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke. And that lame fword-and-buckler prince of Wales, B that, I think, his father loves him not, Ad would be glad he met with fome mifchance, I'd have him poifon'd with a pot of ale. Wor. Farewell, my kinfman! I will talk to you When you are better temper'd to attend. North. Why, what a waip-tongu'd and impatient fool Art thou, to break into this woman's mood, Nettled and ftung with pifmires, when I hear In Richard's time-what do ye call the place?- 'Twas where the mad-cap Duke his uncle kept- Hot. You fay true: * Why, what a deal of candy'd courtesy Hot. I have done, i'faith. Wor. Then once more to your Scottish prisoners. [To Hotfpur. Will eafily be granted.-You, my Lord, [To North. Of that fame noble prelate, well belov❜d, Hot. York, is't not? Wor. True, who bears hard His brother's death at Bristol, the Lord Scroop. As what, I think, might be; but what, I know, And only stays but to behold the face Hot. I fmell it. On my life it will do well. Alluding to what paffed in King Richard, AQIL Sc. 9. Johnjon. Wor. So they fhall. : Hot. In faith it is exceedingly well aim'd. To make us ftrangers to his looks of love. To bear our fortunes in our own ftrong arms, North. Farewell, good brother; we shall thrive, Hot. Uncle, adieu. O let the hours be fhort, 'Till fields, and blows, and groans applaud our fport! ACT II. [Exeunt. SCENE I.. An Inn at Rochester. Enter a Carrier, with a lanthorn in his hand. HE Carrier. Eigh ho! an't be not four by the day, I'll be bang'd. Charles' wain is over the new chimney, and yet our hørte not packt. What, oftler? Oft. within.] Anon, anon. 1 Car. I pr'ythee, Tom, beat Cutt's faddle, put a few flocks in the point: the poor jade is wrung in the withers, out of all cess †. A head is a body of forces ti. c. Out of all meature. Warburton. Enter another Carrier. 2 Car. Pease and beans are as dank here as a dog, and that is the next way to give poor jades the bots. This houfe is turn'd upside down, fince Robin Oftler dy'd. 1 Car. Poor fellow never joy'd fince the price of oats role; it was the death of him. 2 Car. I think this be the most villainous houfe in all London road for fleas : I am stung like a tench. 1 Car. Like a tench? by th' mafs there's ne'er a King in Christendom could be better bit then I have been fince the first cock. 2 Car. Why, they will allow us ne'er a jourden, and then we leak in your chimney: and your chamber-lie breed fleas like a loach. I Car. What, oftler!--Come away, and be hang'd, come away. 2 Car. I have a gammon of bacon, and two razes of ginger to be deliver'd as far as Charing-crofs. I Car. 'Odfbody, the Turkies in my panniers are quite ftarv'd. What, oftler! a plague on thee! haft thou never an eye in thy head? canft not hear? an 'twere not as good a deed as drink, to break the pate of thee, I am a very villain.-Come and be hang'd-haft no faith in thee? Enter Gads-hill. Gads. Good-morrow, carriers. What's o' clock? Car. I think it be two o'clock. Gads. I pr'ythee lend me thy lanthorn, to fee my gelding in the ftable. 1 Car. Nay, foft, I pray ye; I know a trick worth two of that, i' faith. Gads. I pr'ythee lend me thine. 2 Car. Ay, when? canst tell?—lend me thy lant❤ horn, quoth a !-marry, I'll fee thee hang'd first. Gads. Sirrah, carrier, what time do you mean to come to London? 2 Car. Time enough to go to bed with a candle, I warrant thee.-Come, neighbour Mugges, we'll |