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Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?
Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?
Thou art so fat-witted, with drinking of old sack and unbuttoning thee after supper and sleeping upon benches after noon, that thou hast forgotten to demand that truly which thou wouldst truly know. What a devil hast thou to do with the time of the day? Unless hours were cups of sack and minutes capons and clocks the tongues of bawds and dials the signs of leaping-houses and the blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-coloured taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of the day.
You’re so slow-witted from drinking old wine, unbuttoning your clothes after dinner, and napping in the afternoon, that you’ve forgotten to ask the one thing you really want to know. Why do you care about the time of day? Unless hours were cups of wine, minutes were chickens, clocks were the gossiping tongues of prostitutes, and the sun itself was a beautiful hot woman in bright red fabric, I see no reason for you to be asking about the time.
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 prithee, sweet wag, when thou art king, as, God save thy grace,--majesty I should say, for grace thou wilt have none,--
Well, you’re getting close now, Hal; because we who steal purses follow the moon and the stars, not the sun, that “wandering knight so fair.” And, I beg you, my sweet friend, when you become king, as God save you,-- I should say, Majesty, because you won’t have any grace,--
What, none?
What, no grace?
No, by my troth, not so much as will serve to prologue to an egg and butter.
No, by my truth, not even enough to serve as a prelude to an egg and butter.
Well, how then? come, roundly, roundly.
Well, what then? Come on, be direct.
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.
Well then, sweet friend, when you’re king, don’t let those of us who belong to the night be called thieves of the day’s beauty: let us be Diana’s foresters, gentlemen of the shade, followers of the moon; and let people say we’re men of good conduct, being led, like the sea, by our noble and pure mistress, the moon, under whose watchful eye we steal.
Thou sayest 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 snatched on Monday night and most dissolutely spent on Tuesday morning; got with swearing ’Lay by’ and spent with crying ’Bring in;’ now in 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.
You speak wisely, and it makes sense too; because the luck of those of us who follow the moon rises and falls like the tide, controlled, just like the sea, by the moon. For example: a purse of gold most boldly stolen on Monday night and then spent carelessly on Tuesday morning; gotten with swearing “Lay by” and spent with shouting “Bring in;” now as low as the foot of the ladder, and soon as high as the top of the gallows.
By the Lord, thou sayest true, lad. And is not my hostess of the tavern a most sweet wench?
By the Lord, you speak the truth, lad. And isn’t my hostess at the tavern a sweet woman?
As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the castle. And is not a buff jerkin a most sweet robe of durance?
As sweet as the honey of Hybla, my old friend of the castle. And isn’t a buff-colored jacket a lovely prison outfit?
How now, how now, mad wag! what, in thy quips and thy quiddities? what a plague have I to do with a buff jerkin?
What’s this, what’s this, my merry friend! What’s with your jests and tricks? What does a buff jacket have to do with anything?
Why, what a pox have I to do with my hostess of the tavern?
Why, what does my hostess at the tavern have to do with me?
Well, thou hast called her to a reckoning many a time and oft.
Well, you’ve called her to settle up the bill many times, haven’t you?
Did I ever call for thee to pay thy part?
Did I ever ask you to pay your share?
No; I’ll give thee thy due, thou hast paid all there.
No; I’ll give you what you’re owed, you’ve paid everything there.
Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my coin would stretch; and where it would not, I have used my credit.
Yes, and in other places, as far as my money would go; and where it couldn’t, I’ve used my credit.
Yea, and so used it that were it not here apparent that thou art heir apparent--But, I prithee, sweet wag, shall there be gallows standing in England when thou art king? and resolution thus fobbed as it is with the rusty curb of old father antic the law? Do not thou, when thou art king, hang a thief.
Yes, and used it so well that if it weren’t clear here that you’re the heir apparent—But, I beg you, sweet rogue, will there still be gallows standing in England when you’re king? And will decisions be so messed up with the rusty reins of old father time, the law? Don’t you, when you’re king, hang a thief.
No; thou shalt.
No; you will.
Shall I? O rare! By the Lord, I’ll be a brave judge.
Will I? Oh, how wonderful! By the Lord, I’ll be a fine judge.
Thou judgest false already: I mean, thou shalt have the hanging of the thieves and so become a rare hangman.
You’re already judging wrongly: I mean, you’ll have the job of hanging the thieves and become a rare executioner.
Well, Hal, well; and in some sort it jumps with my humour as well as waiting in the court, I can tell you.
Well, Hal, well; and in some ways, it suits my mood just as well as working in the court, I’ll tell you.
For obtaining of suits?
For getting legal cases?
Yea, for obtaining of suits, whereof the hangman hath no lean wardrobe. ’Sblood, I am as melancholy as a gib cat or a lugged bear.
Yes, for getting legal cases, where the hangman has no shortage of clothes. Damn, I’m as gloomy as a half-dead cat or a beaten bear.
Or an old lion, or a lover’s lute.
Or an old lion, or a lover’s lute.
Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire bagpipe.
Yes, or the buzzing of a Lincolnshire bagpipe.
What sayest thou to a hare, or the melancholy of Moor-ditch?
What do you think of a hare, or the gloom of Moor-ditch?
Thou hast the most unsavoury similes and art indeed the most comparative, rascalliest, sweet young prince. But, Hal, I prithee, 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 marked him not; and yet he talked very wisely, but I regarded him not; and yet he talked wisely, and in the street too.
You have the most unpleasant comparisons and are indeed the most absurd, rascal prince. But, Hal, I beg you, don’t bother me with nonsense. I wish to God you and I knew where we could get a good supply of good names. An old council lord scolded me the other day in the street about you, sir, but I didn’t pay attention to him; and yet he spoke very wisely, but I ignored him; and still, he spoke wisely, and in the street too.
Thou didst well; for wisdom cries out in the streets, and no man regards it.
You did well; because wisdom shouts in the streets, and no one listens.
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, and I do not, I am a villain: I’ll be damned for never a king’s son in Christendom.
Oh, you have damnable repetition and can truly corrupt a saint. You’ve done a lot of damage to me, Hal; God forgive you for it! Before I knew you, Hal, I knew nothing; and now, if a man speaks honestly, I’m little better than one of the wicked. I must give up this life, and I will give it up: by the Lord, if I don’t, I am a villain: I’ll be damned for no king’s son in Christendom.
Where shall we take a purse tomorrow, Jack?
Where should we steal a purse tomorrow, Jack?
’Zounds, where thou wilt, lad; I’ll make one; an I do not, call me villain and baffle me.
Damn it, wherever you want, lad; I’ll make one; if I don’t, call me a villain and insult me.
I see a good amendment of life in thee; from praying to purse-taking.
I see you’re starting to change your ways; from praying to stealing purses.
Why, Hal, ’tis my vocation, Hal; ’tis no sin for a man to labour in his vocation.
Well, Hal, it’s my job, Hal; it’s not a sin for a man to work in his job.
Poins! 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.
Poins! Now we’ll find out if Gadshill has arranged a robbery. Oh, if people could be saved by how good they are, what place in hell would be hot enough for him? This is the most powerful villain who ever shouted ’Stop’ to an honest man.
Good morrow, Ned.
Good morning, Ned.
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?
Good morning, sweet Hal. What’s up with Monsieur Remorse? What about Sir John Sack and Sugar? Jack! how do you and the devil agree about your soul, which you sold to him last Good Friday for a cup of Madeira and a cold chicken leg?
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.
Sir John keeps his word; the devil will get what’s his; for he has never broken a proverb: he’ll give the devil his due.
Then art thou damned for keeping thy word with the devil.
Then you’re damned for keeping your word with the devil.
Else he had been damned for cozening the devil.
Otherwise, he would have been damned for cheating the devil.
But, my lads, my lads, to-morrow morning, by four o’clock, early at Gadshill! there are pilgrims going to Canterbury with rich offerings, and traders riding to London with fat purses: I have vizards for you all; you have horses for yourselves: Gadshill lies to-night in Rochester: I have bespoke supper to-morrow 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 hanged.
But, my lads, my lads, tomorrow morning, by four o’clock, early at Gadshill! there are pilgrims heading to Canterbury with valuable offerings, and traders riding to London with fat purses: I have disguises for all of you; you have horses for yourselves: Gadshill is in Rochester tonight: I’ve arranged dinner for tomorrow night in Eastcheap: we can do it as safely as sleeping. If you go, I’ll fill your purses with crowns; if you don’t, stay at home and get hanged.
Hear ye, Yedward; if I tarry at home and go not, I’ll hang you for going.
Listen, Yedward; if I stay home and don’t go, I’ll hang you for going.
You will, chops?
You will, will you?
Hal, wilt thou make one?
Hal, will you join in?
Who, I rob? I a thief? not I, by my faith.
Who, me? Rob? Am I a thief? Not I, by my faith.
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.
There’s no honesty, courage, or friendship in you, and you’re not even of royal blood, if you don’t dare to stand for ten shillings.
Well then, once in my days I’ll be a madcap.
Well then, once in my life, I’ll be reckless.
Why, that’s well said.
Well, that’s good to hear.
Well, come what will, I’ll tarry at home.
Well, whatever happens, I’ll stay at home.
By the Lord, I’ll be a traitor then, when thou art king.
By God, I’ll be a traitor when you’re king.
I care not.
I don’t care.
Sir John, I prithee, leave the prince and me alone: I will lay him down such reasons for this adventure that he shall go.
Sir John, please, leave the prince and me alone: I’ll give him such good reasons for this plan that he’ll go along with it.
Well, God give thee the spirit of persuasion and him the ears of profiting, that what thou speakest may move and what he hears may be believed, that the true prince may, for recreation sake, prove a false thief; for the poor abuses of the time want countenance. Farewell: you shall find me in Eastcheap.
Well, may God give you the power of persuasion and him the ability to listen, so that what you say may move him, and what he hears may be believed, so the true prince can, just for fun, become a fake thief; because the poor foolishness of the time needs support. Goodbye: you’ll find me in Eastcheap.
Farewell, thou latter spring! farewell, All-hallown summer!
Goodbye, you late spring! goodbye, All-hallown summer!
Now, my good sweet honey lord, ride with us to-morrow: I have a jest to execute that I cannot manage alone. Falstaff, Bardolph, Peto and Gadshill shall rob those men that we have already waylaid: yourself and I will not be there; and when they have the booty, if you and I do not rob them, cut this head off from my shoulders.
Now, my good sweet lord, ride with us tomorrow: I have a joke to pull off that I can’t do alone. Falstaff, Bardolph, Peto, and Gadshill will rob those men we’ve already ambushed: you and I won’t be there; and when they have the loot, if you and I don’t rob them, cut off my head.
How shall we part with them in setting forth?
How will we part ways with them when we set out?
Why, we will set forth before or after them, and appoint them a place of meeting, wherein it is at our pleasure to fail, and then will they adventure upon the exploit themselves; which they shall have no sooner achieved, but we’ll set upon them.
We’ll set out before or after them, and give them a place to meet, where it’s up to us whether we fail or not, and then they’ll go ahead with the plan themselves; and as soon as they succeed, we’ll ambush them.
Yea, but ’tis like that they will know us by our horses, by our habits and by every other appointment, to be ourselves.
Yes, but it’s likely they’ll recognize us by our horses, our clothes, and everything else about us.
Tut! our horses they shall not see: I’ll tie them in the wood; our vizards we will change after we leave them: and, sirrah, I have cases of buckram for the nonce, to immask our noted outward garments.
Nonsense! They won’t see our horses: I’ll tie them in the woods; we’ll change our masks after we leave them, and, my friend, I have some cases of buckram to cover up our recognizable clothes.
Yea, but I doubt they will be too hard for us.
Yes, but I worry they’ll be too clever for us.
Well, for two of them, I know them to be as true-bred cowards as ever turned back; and for the third, if he fight longer than he sees reason, I’ll forswear arms. The virtue of this jest will be, the incomprehensible lies that this same fat rogue will tell us when we meet at supper: how thirty, at least, he fought with; what wards, what blows, what extremities he endured; and in the reproof of this lies the jest.
Well, for two of them, I know them to be as true-bred cowards as ever turned back; and for the third, if he fights longer than he should, I’ll give up fighting altogether. The joke here will be, the ridiculous lies that this fat fool will tell us when we meet at dinner: how at least thirty men he fought with; what blocks, what punches, what suffering he went through; and the mockery of this will be in his lies.
Well, I’ll go with thee: provide us all things necessary and meet me to-morrow night in Eastcheap; there I’ll sup. Farewell.
Well, I’ll go with you: get everything we need, and meet me tomorrow night in Eastcheap; there I’ll have dinner. Goodbye.
Farewell, my lord.
Goodbye, my lord.
I know you all, and will awhile uphold The unyoked humour of your idleness: Yet herein will I imitate the sun, Who doth permit the base contagious clouds To smother up his beauty from the world, That, when he please again to be himself, Being wanted, he may be more wonder’d at, By breaking through the foul and ugly mists Of vapours that did seem to strangle him. If all the year were playing holidays, To sport would be as tedious as to work; But when they seldom come, they wish’d for come, And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents. So, when this loose behavior I throw off And pay the debt I never promised, By how much better than my word I am, By so much shall I falsify men’s hopes; And like bright metal on a sullen ground, My reformation, glittering o’er my fault, Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes Than that which hath no foil to set it off. I’ll so offend, to make offence a skill; Redeeming time when men think least I will.
I know you all, and for now, I’ll go along with the careless attitude of your laziness: But here I’ll act like the sun, Who lets the ugly, contagious clouds cover up his brightness from the world, So that, when he wants to shine again, Being missed, he’ll be admired more, By breaking through the foul and ugly mist that seemed to choke him. If every day were a holiday, It would be as boring as work; But when they come rarely, people long for them, And nothing pleases but rare events. So, when I drop this lazy behavior And fulfill the duty I never promised, I’ll be much better than I was expected to be, And that will disappoint people’s hopes; And just like bright metal on a dull surface, My change, shining over my past mistakes, Will look better and attract more attention Than if it had no flaws to set it off. I’ll act badly on purpose, to make bad actions an art; And redeem my time when no one expects it.