Action Figure
Theatre
Act3 Scene3
King: What infinite hearts-ease must Kings neglect, That priuate men enioy? O Ceremonie, shew me but thy worth. Canst thou, when thou command'st the beggers knee, Command the health of it? No, thou prowd Dreame,
That play'st so subtilly with a Kings Repose. I am a King that find thee: and I know, 'Tis not the Balme, the Scepter, and the Ball, The Sword, the Mase, the Crowne Imperiall, The enter-tissued Robe of Gold and Pearle, The farsed Title running 'fore the King, The Throne he sits on: nor the Tyde of Pompe, That beates vpon the high shore of this World: No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous Ceremonie;
Not all these, lay'd in Bed Maiesticall, Can sleepe so soundly, as the wretched Slaue: Who with a body fill'd, and vacant mind, Gets him to rest, cram'd with distressefull bread, Neuer sees horride Night, the Child of Hell: But like a Lacquey, from the Rise to Set,
Sweates in the eye of Phebus; and all Night Sleepes in Elizium: next day after dawne, Doth rise and helpe Hiperio to his Horse, And followes so the euer-running yeere With profitable labour to his Graue: And but for Ceremonie, such a Wretch, Winding vp Dayes with toyle, and Nights with sleepe, Had the fore-hand and vantage of a King. The Slaue, a Member of the Countreyes peace, Enioyes it; but in grosse braine little wots,
What watch the King keepes, to maintaine the peace; Whose howres, the Pesant best aduantages.
Pistoll: Che vous la?
King: A friend. Pistoll: Discusse vnto me, art thou Officer, or art thou / base, common, and popular?
King: I am a Gentleman of a Company. Pistoll: The King's a Bawcock, and a Heart of Gold, a / Lad of Life, an Impe of Fame, of Parents good, of Fist / most valiant: I kisse his durtie shooe, and from heart-string / I loue the louely Bully. What is thy Name?
Pistoll: Le Roy? a Cornish Name: art thou of Cornish Crew? King: No, I am a Welchman.
Pistoll: Know'st thou Fluellen? King: Yes.
Pistoll: Tell him Ile knock his Leeke about his Pate vpon / S. Dauies day.
King: Doe not you weare your Dagger in your Cappe / that day, least he knock that about yours.
Pistoll: The Figo for thee then.
King: I thanke you: God be with you.
Erpingham: My Lord, your Nobles iealous of your absence, Seeke through your Campe to find you. King: Good old Knight, collect them all together At my Tent: Ile be before thee.
And on it haue bestowed more contrite teares, Then from it issued forced drops of blood. Though all that I can doe, is nothing worth;
Since that my Penitence comes after all, Imploring pardon.