Chapter: Scene II.
London. An apartment of the Prince's.

Enter Prince of Wales and Sir John Falstaff.

  Fal. Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?
  Prince. 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
    wouldest 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.
  Fal. 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
    wand'ring 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-
  Prince. What, none?
  Fal. No, by my troth; not so much as will serve to be prologue
to
    an egg and butter.
  Prince. Well, how then? Come, roundly, roundly.
  Fal. 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.
  Prince. 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 snatch'd on Monday night and most
    dissolutely spent on Tuesday morning; got with swearing 'Lay
by,'
    and spent with crying 'Bring in'; now ill 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.
  Fal. By the Lord, thou say'st true, lad- and is not my hostess
of
    the tavern a most sweet wench?
  Prince. As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the castle- and is
not
    a buff jerkin a most sweet robe of durance?
  Fal. How now, how now, mad wag? What, in thy quips and thy
    quiddities? What a plague have I to do with a buff jerkin?
  Prince. Why, what a pox have I to do with my hostess of the
tavern?
  Fal. Well, thou hast call'd her to a reckoning many a time and
oft.
  Prince. Did I ever call for thee to pay thy part?
  Fal. No; I'll give thee thy due, thou hast paid all there.
  Prince. Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my coin would stretch;
and
    where it would not, I have used my credit.
  Fal. Yea, and so us'd 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 fubb'd as it is with the rusty curb of old father antic
the
    law? Do not thou, when thou art king, hang a thief.
  Prince. No; thou shalt.
  Fal. Shall I? O rare! By the Lord, I'll be a brave judge.
  Prince. Thou judgest false already. I mean, thou shalt have the
    hanging of the thieves and so become a rare hangman.
  Fal. Well, Hal, well; and in some sort it jumps with my humour
as
    well as waiting in the court, I can tell you.
  Prince. For obtaining of suits?
  Fal. Yea, for obtaining of suits, whereof the hangman hath no
lean
    wardrobe. 'Sblood, I am as melancholy as a gib-cat or a
lugg'd
    bear.
  Prince. Or an old lion, or a lover's lute.
  Fal. Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire bagpipe.
  Prince. What sayest thou to a hare, or the melancholy of Moor
    Ditch?
  Fal. 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 mark'd him not; and yet he talked very wisely, but I
    regarded him not; and yet he talk'd wisely, and in the street
    too.
  Prince. Thou didst well; for wisdom cries out in the streets,
and
    no man regards it.
  Fal. 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, an I do not, I am a villain! I'll be damn'd for
    never a king's son in Christendom.
  Prince. Where shall we take a purse tomorrow, Jack?
  Fal. Zounds, where thou wilt, lad! I'll make one. An I do not,
call
    me villain and baffle me.
  Prince. I see a good amendment of life in thee- from praying to
    purse-taking.
  Fal. Why, Hal, 'tis my vocation, Hal. 'Tis no sin for a man to
    labour in his vocation.

                             Enter Poins.

    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.
  Prince. Good morrow, Ned.
  Poins. 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?
  Prince. 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.
  Poins. Then art thou damn'd for keeping thy word with the
devil.
  Prince. Else he had been damn'd for cozening the devil.
  Poins. But, my lads, my lads, to-morrow morning, by four
o'clock
    early, at Gadshill! There are pilgrims gong 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 hang'd!
  Fal. Hear ye, Yedward: if I tarry at home and go not, I'll hang
you
    for going.
  Poins. You will, chops?
  Fal. Hal, wilt thou make one?
  Prince. Who, I rob? I a thief? Not I, by my faith.
  Fal. There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in
thee,
    nor thou cam'st not of the blood royal if thou darest not
stand
    for ten shillings.
  Prince. Well then, once in my days I'll be a madcap.
  Fal. Why, that's well said.
  Prince. Well, come what will, I'll tarry at home.
  Fal. By the Lord, I'll be a traitor then, when thou art king.
  Prince. I care not.
  Poins. Sir John, I prithee, leave the Prince and me alone. I
will
    lay him down such reasons for this adventure that he shall
go.
  Fal. 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.
  Prince. Farewell, thou latter spring! farewell, All-hallown
summer!
                                                  Exit Falstaff.
  Poins. 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.
  Prince. How shall we part with them in setting forth?
  Poins. 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.
  Prince. Yea, but 'tis like that they will know us by our
horses, by
    our habits, and by every other appointment, to be ourselves.
  Poins. Tut! our horses they shall not see- I'll tie them in the
    wood; our wizards we will change after we leave them; and,
    sirrah, I have cases of buckram for the nonce, to immask our
    noted outward garments.
  Prince. Yea, but I doubt they will be too hard for us.
  Poins. Well, for two of them, I know them to be as true-bred
    cowards as ever turn'd back; and for the third, if he fight
    longer than he sees reason, I'll forswear arms. The virtue of
    this jest will lie 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.
  Prince. Well, I'll go with thee. Provide us all things
necessary
    and meet me to-night in Eastcheap. There I'll sup. Farewell.
  Poins. Farewell, my lord.                                Exit.
  Prince. I know you all, and will awhile uphold
    The unyok'd 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 lie himself,
    Being wanted, he may be more wond'red 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 behaviour 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, glitt'ring 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.            Exit.

 The action now shifts to the prince's apartment in London, and the participants are Prince Hal himself, Sir John Falstaff, and Poins. Prince Hal, far from engaging enemies of the Crown in armed combat, is amusing himself in witty verbal exchange with Falstaff. The subject of this discourse ranges from drinking to purse-snatching. The two vie with each other in trading amusing insults. Falstaff shows little deference for the prince, twitting him about his lack of grace and his devil-may-care attitude and behavior. Hal, whose initial speech provides a full-length portrait of the knight as a glutton and lecher who is too "fat-witted" to be concerned about the time of day, proves to be a rather worthy opponent in this combat of wits. But Falstaff matches him in rebuttal; indeed, some critics argue that the fat knight excels him. Since the subject of robbery has been introduced prior to the arrival of Poins, the way has been prepared for details about the Gadshill enterprise in which Hal and Falstaff are asked to participate. Hal amuses himself at Falstaff's expense. First he refuses to go along with the others even "for recreation sake"; then, after listening to Falstaff's denunciation of him, he changes his mind; and finally he refuses once more to be one of the thieves at Gadshill. After Falstaff has departed, the prince learns from Poins that the robbery will provide a wonderful opportunity to gull Falstaff. Let Sir John, Bardolph, and Peto rob the travelers; then Hal and Poins, disguised, will rob the robbers. The great sport will be to expose Falstaff as a coward and liar. Prince Hal cannot resist such a good chance to trick his old companion; he will take part in the robbery at Gadshill. All the dialogue so far has been in prose. Left alone, the prince now soliloquizes in blank verse. He makes it clear that he is fully aware of the character of his chosen companions, likening them to "contagious clouds." He states that he chooses for a time to remain in their riotous company for recreation's sake but will, at the right moment, surprise and gratify the world by standing forth in his true character.

