RED. By my Ch-Ch-Christendom, I ha-have not b-been h-here this three nights; a p-p-plague of him, that made me such a ch-chanting, and s-sent me such a ja-ja-jaunt! blood, I was st-stayed for Skink, that ill-fa-fa-fac'd rogue.
POR. I pray God there be no practice in this change. Now I remember these are Skink's clothes, That he wore last day at the Parl'ament.
_Knock; Enter at another door_ JOHN _in_ GLOSTER'S _gown_.
POR. Do you not hear them knock? you must stay, sir.
RED. Wh-wh-what, raw? 'Tis a very harsh mo-morsel, Ne-next your he-heart.
JOHN. A plague upon your jaunts! what, porter, slave?
JOHN. And at the gallows! zounds, this frets my soul.
RED. But I c-could not f-find your s-s-sister the La-Lady Fau-Fauconbridge.
JOHN. You stammering slave, hence! chat among your daws. Come ye to mad me? while the rogue your father--
POR. Is't midsummer: do you begin to rave?
JOHN. Hark, how the traitor flouts me to my teeth! I would entreat your knaveship, let me forth, For fear I dash your brains out with the keys. What is become of Gloster and my garments?
POR. Alas, in your apparel Gloster's gone, I let him out even now; I am undone.
JOHN. It was your practice, and to keep me back, You sent Jack Daw your son with ka-ka-ka, To tell a sleeveless tale! lay hold on him, To Newgate with him and your tut-a-tut! Run, Redcap, and trudge about, Or bid your father's portership farewell.
RED. Eh! here's a go-good je-je-jest, by the L-Lord, to mo-mock an ape withal! my fa-fa-father has brought his ho-ho-hogs to a fa-fa-fair m-m-market. Po-po-porter, quoth you? p-po-porter that will for me; and I po-po-porter it, let them po-po-post me to heaven in this qua-quarter. But I must s-s-seek this Gl-Gl-Gloster and Sk-Sk-Skink that co-coney-catching ra-ra-rascal, a pa-pa-plague co-co-confound him. Re-Re-Redcap must ru-run, he cannot tell whi-whither. [_Exit_.
_Sound trumpets, enter_ HENRY _the younger, on one hand of him_ QUEEN ELINOR, _on the other_ LEICESTER.
HEN. Mother and Leicester, add not oil to fire; Wrath's kindled with a word, and cannot hear The numberless persuasions you insort.
QUEEN. O, but, my son, thy father favours him. Richard, that vile abortive changeling brat, And Fauconbridge, are fallen at Henry's feet. They woo for him, but entreat my son Gloster may die for this, that he hath done.