London. Before a Tavern in Eastcheap. |
|
Enter PISTOL, Hostess, NYM, BARDOLPH, and Boy. |
Host. Prithee, honey-sweet husband, let me bring thee to Staines. |
Pist. No; for my manly heart doth yearn. |
Bardolph, be blithe; Nym, rouse thy vaunting veins; |
Boy, bristle thy courage up; for Falstaff he is dead, |
And we must yearn therefore. |
Bard. Would I were with him, wheresome'er he is, either in heaven or in hell! |
Host. Nay, sure, he's not in hell: he's in Arthur's bosom, if ever man went to Arthur's bosom. A' made a finer end and went away an it had been any christom child; a' parted even just between twelve and one, even at the turning o' the tide: for after I saw him fumble with the sheets and play with flowers and smile upon his fingers' ends, I knew there was but one way; for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and a' babbled of green fields. 'How now, Sir John!' quoth I: 'what man! be of good cheer.' So a' cried out 'God, God, God!' three or four times: now I, to comfort him, bid him a' should not think of God, I hoped there was no need to trouble himself with any such thoughts yet. So a' bade me lay more clothes on his feet: I put my hand into the bed and felt them, and they were as cold as any stone; then I felt to his knees, and so upward, and upward, and all was as cold as any stone. |
Nym. They say he cried out of sack. |
Host. Ay, that a' did. |
Bard. And of women. |
Host. Nay, that a' did not. |
Boy. Yes, that a' did; and said they were devils incarnate. |
Host. A' could never abide carnation; 'twas a colour he never liked. |
Boy. A' said once, the devil would have him about women. |
Host. A' did in some sort, indeed, handle women; but then he was rheumatic, and talked of the whore of Babylon. |
Boy. Do you not remember a' saw a flea stick upon Bardolph's nose, and a' said it was a black soul burning in hell-fire? |
Bard. Well, the fuel is gone that maintained that fire: that's all the riches I got in his service. |
Nym. Shall we shog? the king will be gone from Southampton. |
Pist. Come, let's away. My love, give me thy lips. |
Look to my chattels and my moveables: |
Let senses rule, the word is, 'Pitch and pay;' |
Trust none; |
For oaths are straws, men's faiths are wafercakes, |
And hold-fast is the only dog, my duck: |
Therefore, caveto be thy counsellor. |
Go, clear thy crystals. Yoke-fellows in arms, |
Let us to France; like horse-leeches, my boys, |
To suck, to suck, the very blood to suck! |
Boy. And that's but unwholesome food, they say. |
Pist. Touch her soft mouth, and march. |
Bard. Farewell, hostess. [Kissing her. |
Nym. I cannot kiss, that is the humour of it; but, adieu. |
Pist. Let housewifery appear: keep close, I thee command. |
Host. Farewell; adieu. [Exeunt. |
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