Bar. Well, my good Lord: he heard of your Graces
comming to Towne. There's a Letter for you

Poin. Deliuer'd with good respect: And how doth the
Martlemas, your Master?
Bard. In bodily health Sir

Poin. Marry, the immortall part needes a Physitian:
but that moues not him: though that bee sicke, it dyes
not

Prince. I do allow this Wen to bee as familiar with
me, as my dogge: and he holds his place, for looke you
he writes

Poin.

Letter.

Iohn Falstaffe Knight: (Euery man must
know that, as oft as hee hath occasion to name himselfe:)
Euen like those that are kinne to the King, for they neuer
pricke their finger, but they say, there is som of the kings
blood spilt. How comes that (sayes he) that takes vpon
him not to conceiue? the answer is as ready as a borrowed
cap: I am the Kings poore Cosin, Sir

Prince. Nay, they will be kin to vs, but they wil fetch
it from Iaphet. But to the Letter: - Sir Iohn Falstaffe,
Knight, to the Sonne of the King, neerest his Father, Harrie