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PRINCE HENRY

80Sirrah, Falstaff and the rest of the thieves are at the door.
Shall we be merry?

PRINCE HENRY

Sirrah, Falstaff and the rest of the thieves are here. Are we ready for a laugh?

POINS

As merry as crickets, my lad. But hark you, what cunning match have you made with this jest of the drawer. Come, what’s the issue?

POINS

We’ll be happy as crickets, my lad. But listen, what’s with this gag you played on the waiter? What’s the point?

PRINCE HENRY

85I am now of all humors that have showed themselves humors since the old days of Goodman Adam to the pupil age of this present twelve o'clock at midnight.

PRINCE HENRY

I’m up for anything. Right now, I’m feeling all the moods that anyone has ever felt, from the old days of Adam to this young age, right now, at twelve o'clock midnight.
Enter FRANCIS
FRANCIS enters.
What’s o'clock, Francis?
What time is it, Francis?

FRANCIS

Anon, anon, sir.

FRANCIS

Just a second, sir.
Exit FRANCIS
FRANCIS exits.

PRINCE HENRY

90That 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.

PRINCE HENRY

This boy has fewer words than a parrot, but he’s actually a person! All he does is run up and down stairs, and the only things he can say are the names of the items on your bill. I’m not yet like Percy, the Hotspur of the North. He kills six or seven dozen Scotsmen before breakfast, washes his hands, and then says to his wife, “To hell with this boring life! I need something to do!” “Oh, my sweet Harry,” she says, “How many have you killed today?” “Give my brown horse a dose of medicine,” he says. And then about an hour later, he answers her: “About fourteen.” Then he says, “That’s nothing, nothing.” Listen, bring in Falstaff. I’ll play Percy, and that damned fat slob will play his wife, Dame Mortimer. “Bottom’s up!” as the drunk says. Bring in the meat, bring in blubber.