A Room in the Garter Inn. |
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Enter FALSTAFF, Host, BARDOLPH, NYM, PISTOL, and ROBIN |
Fal. Mine host of the Garter! |
Host. What says my bully-rook? Speak scholarly and wisely. |
Fal. Truly, mine host, I must turn away some of my followers. |
Host. Discard, bully Hercules; cashier: let them wag; trot, trot. |
Fal. I sit at ten pounds a week. |
Host. Thou'rt an emperor, Cæsar, Keisar, and Pheezar. I will entertain Bardolph; he shall draw, he shall tap: said I well, bully Hector? |
Fal. Do so, good mine host. |
Host. I have spoke; let him follow. [To BARD.] Let me see thee froth and lime: I am at a word; follow. [Exit. |
Fal. Bardolph, follow him. A tapster is a good trade: an old cloak makes a new jerkin; a withered serving-man, a fresh tapster. Go; adieu. |
Bard. It is a life that I have desired. I will thrive. |
Pist. O base Hungarian wight! wilt thou the spigot wield? [Exit BARD. |
Nym. He was gotten in drink; is not the humour conceited? |
Fal. I am glad I am so acquit of this tinderbox; his thefts were too open; his filching was like an unskilful singer; he kept not time. |
Nym. The good humour is to steal at a minim's rest. |
Pist. 'Convey,' the wise it call. 'Steal!' foh! a fico for the phrase! |
Fal. Well, sirs, I am almost out at heels. |
Pist. Why, then, let kibes ensue. |
Fal. There is no remedy; I must conycatch, I must shift. |
Pist. Young ravens must have food. |
Fal. Which of you know Ford of this town? |
Pist. I ken the wight: he is of substance good. |
Fal. My honest lads, I will tell you what I am about. |
Pist. Two yards, and more. |
Fal. No quips now, Pistol! Indeed, I am in the waist two yards about; but I am now about no waste; I am about thrift. Briefly, I do mean to make love to Ford's wife: I spy entertainment in her; she discourses, she carves, she gives the leer of invitation: I can construe the action of her familiar style; and the hardest voice of her behaviour, to be Englished rightly, is, 'I am Sir John Falstaff's.' |
Pist. He hath studied her well, and translated her well, out of honesty into English. |
Nym. The anchor is deep: will that humour pass? |
Fal. Now, the report goes she has all the rule of her husband's purse; he hath a legion of angels. |
Pist. As many devils entertain, and 'To her, boy,' say I. |
Nym. The humour rises; it is good: humour me the angels. |
Fal. I have writ me here a letter to her; and here another to Page's wife, who even now gave me good eyes too, examined my parts with most judicious œilliades: sometimes the beam of her view gilded my foot, sometimes my portly belly. |
Pist. Then did the sun on dunghill shine. |
Nym. I thank thee for that humour. |
Fal. O! she did so course o'er my exteriors with such a greedy intention, that the appetite of her eye did seem to scorch me up like a burning-glass. Here's another letter to her: she bears the purse too; she is a region in Guiana, all gold and bounty. I will be 'cheator to them both, and they shall be exchequers to me: they shall be my East and West Indies, and I will trade to them both. Go bear thou this letter to Mistress Page; and thou this to Mistress Ford. We will thrive, lads, we will thrive. |
Pist. Shall I Sir Pandarus of Troy become, And by my side wear steel? then, Lucifer take all! |
Nym. I will run no base humour: here, take the humour-letter. I will keep the haviour of reputation. |
Fal. [To ROBIN.] Hold, sirrah, bear you these letters tightly: |
Sail like my pinnace to these golden shores. |
Rogues, hence! avaunt! vanish like hailstones, go; |
Trudge, plod away o' the hoof; seek shelter, pack! |
Falstaff will learn the humour of this age, |
French thrift, you rogues: myself and skirted page. [Exeunt FALSTAFF and ROBIN. |
Pist. Let vultures gripe thy guts! for gourd and fullam holds, |
And high and low beguile the rich and poor. |
Tester I'll have in pouch when thou shalt lack, |
Base Phrygian Turk! |
Nym. I have operations in my head, which be humours of revenge. |
Pist. Wilt thou revenge? |
Nym. By welkin and her star! |
Pist. With wit or steel? |
Nym. With both the humours, I: |
I will discuss the humour of this love to Page. |
Pist. And I to Ford shall eke unfold |
How Falstaff, varlet vile, |
His dove will prove, his gold will hold, |
And his soft couch defile. |
Nym. My humour shall not cool: I will incense Page to deal with poison; I will possess him with yellowness, for the revolt of mine is dangerous: that is my true humour. |
Pist. Thou art the Mars of malcontents: I second thee; troop on. [Exeunt. |
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