Before God, I am exceeding weary.

Is ’t come to that? I had thought weariness durst not have attached one

of so high blood.

Faith, it does me, though it discolours the complexion of my greatness

to acknowledge it. Doth it not show vilely in me to desire small beer?

Why, a prince should not be so loosely studied as to remember so weak a

composition.

Belike then my appetite was not princely got, for, by my troth, I do

now remember the poor creature small beer. But indeed, these humble

considerations make me out of love with my greatness. What a disgrace

is it to me to remember thy name! or to know thy face tomorrow! or to

take note how many pair of silk stockings thou hast—viz. these, and

those that were thy peach-coloured ones! or to bear the inventory of

thy shirts, as, one for superfluity, and another for use! But that the

tennis-court keeper knows better than I, for it is a low ebb of linen

with thee when thou keepest not racket there; as thou hast not done a

great while, because the rest of thy low countries have made a shift to

eat up thy holland. And God knows whether those that bawl out of the

ruins of thy linen shall inherit his kingdom: but the midwives say the

children are not in the fault; whereupon the world increases, and

kindreds are mightily strengthened.

How ill it follows, after you have laboured so hard, you should talk so

idly! Tell me, how many good young princes would do so, their fathers

being so sick as yours at this time is?

Shall I tell thee one thing, Poins?

Yes, faith, and let it be an excellent good thing.

It shall serve among wits of no higher breeding than thine.

Go to, I stand the push of your one thing that you will tell.

Marry, I tell thee it is not meet that I should be sad, now my father

is sick; albeit I could tell to thee, as to one it pleases me, for

fault of a better, to call my friend, I could be sad, and sad indeed

too.

Very hardly upon such a subject.

By this hand, thou thinkest me as far in the devil’s book as thou and

Falstaff for obduracy and persistency. Let the end try the man. But I

tell thee, my heart bleeds inwardly that my father is so sick; and

keeping such vile company as thou art hath in reason taken from me all

ostentation of sorrow.

The reason?

What wouldst thou think of me if I should weep?

I would think thee a most princely hypocrite.

It would be every man’s thought; and thou art a blessed fellow to think

as every man thinks. Never a man’s thought in the world keeps the

roadway better than thine: every man would think me an hypocrite

indeed. And what accites your most worshipful thought to think so?

Why, because you have been so lewd and so much engraffed to Falstaff.

And to thee.

By this light, I am well spoke on; I can hear it with mine own ears.

The worst that they can say of me is that I am a second brother, and

that I am a proper fellow of my hands; and those two things, I confess,

I cannot help. By the mass, here comes Bardolph.

And the boy that I gave Falstaff. He had him from me Christian, and

look if the fat villain have not transformed him ape.

God save your Grace!

And yours, most noble Bardolph!

Come, you virtuous ass, you bashful fool, must you be blushing?

Wherefore blush you now? What a maidenly man-at-arms are you become! Is

’t such a matter to get a pottle-pot’s maidenhead?

He calls me e’en now, my lord, through a red lattice, and I could

discern no part of his face from the window. At last I spied his eyes,

and methought he had made two holes in the ale-wife’s new petticoat and

so peeped through.

Has not the boy profited?

Away, you whoreson upright rabbit, away!

Away, you rascally Althaea’s dream, away!

Instruct us, boy; what dream, boy?

Marry, my lord, Althaea dreamt she was delivered of a firebrand; and

therefore I call him her dream.

A crown’s worth of good interpretation. There ’tis, boy.

O, that this blossom could be kept from cankers! Well, there is

sixpence to preserve thee.

An you do not make him be hanged among you, the gallows shall have

wrong.

And how doth thy master, Bardolph?

Well, my lord. He heard of your Grace’s coming to town. There’s a

letter for you.

Delivered with good respect. And how doth the martlemas, your master?

In bodily health, sir.

Marry, the immortal part needs a physician, but that moves not him.

Though that be sick, it dies not.

I do allow this wen to be as familiar with me as my dog, and he holds

his place, for look you how he writes.

[_Reads_.] “John Falstaff, knight,” Every man must know that, as oft as

he has occasion to name himself: even like those that are kin to the

King, for they never prick their finger but they say, “There’s some of

the King’s blood spilt.” “How comes that?” says he that takes upon him

not to conceive. The answer is as ready as a borrower’s cap, “I am the

King’s poor cousin, sir.”

Nay, they will be kin to us, or they will fetch it from Japhet. But to

the letter: “Sir John Falstaff, knight, to the son of the King, nearest

his father, Harry Prince of Wales, greeting.”

Why, this is a certificate.

Peace! “I will imitate the honourable Romans in brevity.”

He sure means brevity in breath, short-winded.

“I commend me to thee, I commend thee, and I leave thee. Be not too

familiar with Poins, for he misuses thy favours so much that he swears

thou art to marry his sister Nell. Repent at idle times as thou mayst,

and so, farewell.

Thine by yea and no, which is as much as to say, as thou usest him—Jack

Falstaff with my familiars, John with my brothers and sisters, and Sir

John with all Europe.”

My lord, I’ll steep this letter in sack and make him eat it.

That’s to make him eat twenty of his words. But do you use me thus,

Ned? Must I marry your sister?

God send the wench no worse fortune! But I never said so.

Well, thus we play the fools with the time, and the spirits of the wise

sit in the clouds and mock us. Is your master here in London?

Yea, my lord.

Where sups he? Doth the old boar feed in the old frank?

At the old place, my lord, in Eastcheap.

What company?

Ephesians, my lord, of the old church.

Sup any women with him?

None, my lord, but old Mistress Quickly and Mistress Doll Tearsheet.

What pagan may that be?

A proper gentlewoman, sir, and a kinswoman of my master’s.

Even such kin as the parish heifers are to the town bull. Shall we

steal upon them, Ned, at supper?

I am your shadow, my lord, I’ll follow you.

Sirrah, you boy, and Bardolph, no word to your master that I am yet

come to town. There’s for your silence.

I have no tongue, sir.

And for mine, sir, I will govern it.

Fare you well; go.

This Doll Tearsheet should be some road.

I warrant you, as common as the way between Saint Albans and London.

How might we see Falstaff bestow himself tonight in his true colours,

and not ourselves be seen?

Put on two leathern jerkins and aprons, and wait upon him at his table

as drawers.

From a god to a bull? A heavy descension! It was Jove’s case. From a

prince to a ’prentice? A low transformation that shall be mine, for in

everything the purpose must weigh with the folly. Follow me, Ned.