I could sing psalms, or any thing. A plague of all cowards, I say still!

P. Henry. How now, wool-sack? What mutter you?

Fal. A king's son! If I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy subjects afore thee like a flock of wild geese, I'll never wear hair on my face more. You prince of Wales!

P. Henry. Why, what's the matter?

Fal. Are you not a coward? Answer me to that; and Poins there?

Poins. Ye fat paunch, an ye call me coward, I'll stab thee. Fal. I call thee coward? I'll see thee hanged ere I call thee coward; but I would give a thousand pounds, I could run as fast as thou canst. You are straight enough in the shoulders; you care not who sees your back: call you that backing of your friends? A plague upon such backing! Give me them that will face me. Give me a cup of sack ;— I am a rogue if I drunk to-day.

P. Henry. O villain! thy lips are scarce wiped since thou drank'st last.

Fal. All's one for that. A plague of all cowards, still say I. (He drinks.)

P. Henry. What's the matter?

Fal. What's the matter! There be four of us here have ta'en a thousand pounds this morning.

P. Henry. Where is it, Jack? where is it?

Fal. Where is it? Taken from us it is; a hundred upon poor four of us.

P. Henry. What! a hundred, man?

Fal. I am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have 'scaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet; four through the hose; my buckler cut through and through; my sword hacked like a hand-saw; look here: (shows his sword.) I never dealt better since I was a man; all would not do. A plague of all cowards! Let them speak; if they speak more or less than truth, they are villains, and the sons of darkness.

P. Henry. Speak, sirs; how was it?

Gadshill. We four set upon some dozen

Fal. Sixteen, at least, my lord.

Gads. And bound them.

Peto. No, no, they were not bound.

Fal. You rogue, they were bound, every man of them; or I am a Jew else-an Ebrew Jew.

Gads. As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men set upon us,

Fal. And unbound the rest; and then come in the other. P. Henry. What! fought ye with them all?

Fal. All? I know not what ye call all; but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish; if there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then I am no twolegged creature.

Poins. I pray Heaven you have not murdered some of them.

Fal. Nay, that's past praying for; I have peppered two of them: two I am sure I have paid; two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal,-if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, and call me a horse. Thou knowest my old ward; (Draws his sword and takes a fighting position,) here I lay, and thus I bore my point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at

me

P. Henry. What! four? Thou saidst but two, even now. Fal. Four, Hal; I told thee four.

Poins. Ay, ay, he said four.

Fal. These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust at me. I made no more ado, but took all their seven points in my target, thus.

P. Henry. Seven? Why, there were but four, even now.
Fal. In buckram.

Poins. Ay, four, in buckram suits.

Fal. Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else.

P. Henry. Pr'ythee, let him alone: we shall have more

anon.

Fal. Dost thou hear me, Hal?

P. Henry. Ay, and mark thee, too, Jack.

Fal. Do so, for it is worth the listening to. These nine in buckram, that I told thee of—

P. Henry. So, two more already.

Fal. Their points being broken, began to give me ground; but I followed me close, came in foot and hand; and, with a thought, seven of the eleven I paid.

P. Henry. Oh, monstrous! eleven buckram men grown out of two!

Fal. But, as ill-luck would have it, three mis-begotten knaves, in Kendal green, came at my back, and let drive at me;—for it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand.

P. Henry. These lies are like the father of them; gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou clay-brained villain; thou knotty-pated fool; thou greasy tallow-keech

Fal. What, art thou mad? art thou mad? Is not the truth the truth?

P. Henry. Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal green, when it was so dark thou couldst not see thy hand? Come, tell us your reason. What sayest thou to

this?

Poins. Come! your reason, Jack; your reason.

Fal. What, upon compulsion? No; were I at the strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a reason on compulsion! If reasons were as plenty as blackberries, I would give no man a reason on compulsion.

P. Henry. I'll no longer be guilty of this sin; this sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horseback-breaker, this huge hill of flesh

Fal. Away! you starveling, you eel-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you stock-fish-Oh for breath to utter what is like thee!-you tailor's yard, you sheath, you bow-case, you vile standing tuck

P. Henry. Well, breathe a while, and then to't again; and when thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons, hear me speak but this.

Poins. Mark, Jack.

P. Henry. We two saw you four set on four; you bound them, and were masters of their wealth. Mark, now, how plain a tale shall put you down. Then did we two set on you four, and, with a word, out-faced you from your prize, and

have it; yea, and can show it you here in the house;—and, Falstaff, you carrried yourself away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and roared, as ever I heard a calf. What a slave art thou, to hack thy sword as thou hast done, and then say it was in fight! What trick, what device, what starting-hole, canst thou now find out to hide thee from this open and apparent shame?

Poins. Come, let's hear, Jack. What trick hast thou now? Fal. Why, I knew ye, as well as he that made ye. Why, hear ye, my masters. Was it for me to kill the heir-apparent? Should I turn upon the true prince? Why, thou knowest I am as valiant as Hercules; but beware instinct; the lion will not touch the true prince: instinct is a great matter; I was a coward on instinct. I shall think the better of myself and thee, during my life; I for a valiant lion, and thou for a true prince. But, lads, I am glad you have the money. Hostess, clap to the doors. Watch to-night, pray to-morrow. Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellowship come to you! What, shall we be merry? Shall we have a play extempore?

P. Henry. Content; and the argument shall be thy running

away.

Fal. Ah! no more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me.

LESSON CLXXVIII.

THE LEPER.

N. P. WILLIS.

1. "ROOм for the leper! room!" And, as he came,

The cry pass'd on:

Room for the leper! room!"
And aside they stood,

Matron, and child, and pitiless manhood,—all
Who met him on his way,—and let him pass.
And onward through the open gate he came,
A leper, with the ashes on his brow,
Sackcloth about his loins, and on his lip
A covering, stepping painfully and slow,

2.

And with a difficult utterance, like one
Whose heart is with an iron nerve put down,
Crying, "Unclean! unclean!"

'Twas now the first

Of the Judean autumn, and the leaves,
Whose shadows lay so still upon his path,
Had put their beauty forth beneath the eye
Of Judah's palmiest noble. He was young,
And eminently beautiful, and life.

Mantled in eloquent fulness on his lip
And sparkled in his glance; and in his mien
There was a gracious pride, that every eye
Followed with benisons: and this was he!

3. With the soft airs of summer there had come
A torpor on his frame, which not the speed
Of his best barb, nor music, nor the blast
Of the bold huntsman's horn, nor aught that stirs
The spirit to its bent, might drive away.

The blood beat not as was wont within his veins;
Dizziness crept o'er his eye; a drowsy sloth
Fetter'd his limbs like palsy, and his mien,
With all its loftiness, seem'd struck with eld.
Even his voice was changed,-a languid moan
Taking the place of a clear, silver key;

And brain and sense grew faint, as if the light
And very air were steep'd in sluggishness.

4. He strove with it a while, as manhood will,
Ever too proud for weakness, till the rein
Slacken'd within his grasp, and in its poise
The arrowy jereed like an aspen shook.
Day after day, he lay as if in sleep;

His skin grew dry and bloodless, and white scales
Circled with livid purple, cover'd him.
And then his nails grew black, and fell away
From the dull flesh about them, and the hues
Deepen'd beneath the hard, unmoisten'd scales,