O' horseback, ye cuckoo; but afoot he will not budge a foot. Yes, Jack, upon instinct. I grant ye, upon instinct. Well, he is there too, and one Mordake, and a thousand blue-caps more: Worcester is stolen away to-night; thy father's beard is turned white with the news: you may buy land now as cheap as stinking mackerel. Why, then, it is like, if there come a hot June and this civil buffeting hold, we shall buy maidenheads as they buy hob-nails, by the hundreds. By the mass, lad, thou sayest true; it is like we shall have good trading that way. But tell me, Hal, art not thou horrible afeard? thou being heir-apparent, could the world pick thee out three such enemies again as that fiend Douglas, that spirit Percy, and that devil Glendower? Art thou not horribly afraid? doth not thy blood thrill at it? Not a whit, i' faith; I lack some of thy instinct. Well, thou wert be horribly chid tomorrow when thou comest to thy father: if thou love me, practise an answer. Do thou stand for my father, and examine me upon the particulars of my life. Shall I? content: this chair shall be my state, this dagger my sceptre, and this cushion my crown. Thy state is taken for a joined-stool, thy golden sceptre for a leaden dagger, and thy precious rich crown for a pitiful bald crown! Well, an the fire of grace be not quite out of thee, now shalt thou be moved. Give me a cup of sack to make my eyes look red, that it may be thought I have wept; for I must speak in passion, and I will do it in King Cambyses' vein. Well, here is my leg. And here is my speech. Stand aside, nobility. O Jesu, this is excellent sport, i' faith! Weep not, sweet queen; for trickling tears are vain. O, the father, how he holds his countenance! For God's sake, lords, convey my tristful queen; For tears do stop the flood-gates of her eyes. O Jesu, he doth it as like one of these harlotry players as ever I see! Peace, good pint-pot; peace, good tickle-brain. Harry, I do not only marvel where thou spendest thy time, but also how thou art accompanied: for though the camomile, the more it is trodden on the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted the sooner it wears. That thou art my son, I have partly thy mother's word, partly my own opinion, but chiefly a villanous