What the devil hast thou brought there—applejohns? Thou knowest Sir

John cannot endure an applejohn.

Mass, thou sayest true. The Prince once set a dish of applejohns before

him, and told him there were five more Sir Johns, and, putting off his

hat, said “I will now take my leave of these six dry, round, old,

withered knights.” It angered him to the heart. But he hath forgot

that.

Why then, cover, and set them down, and see if thou canst find out

Sneak’s noise. Mistress Tearsheet would fain hear some music. Dispatch.

The room where they supped is too hot, they’ll come in straight.

Sirrah, here will be the Prince and Master Poins anon, and they will

put on two of our jerkins and aprons, and Sir John must not know of it.

Bardolph hath brought word.

By the mass, here will be old utis. It will be an excellent stratagem.

I’ll see if I can find out Sneak.

I’ faith, sweetheart, methinks now you are in an excellent good

temperality. Your pulsidge beats as extraordinarily as heart would

desire, and your colour, I warrant you, is as red as any rose, in good

truth, la! But, i’ faith, you have drunk too much canaries, and that’s

a marvellous searching wine, and it perfumes the blood ere one can say

“What’s this?” How do you now?

Better than I was. Hem!

Why, that’s well said. A good heart’s worth gold. Lo, here comes Sir

John.

[_Singing_.] “When Arthur first in court”—Empty the jordan.

[_Exit First Drawer_.]—[_Singing_.] “And was a worthy king.”

How now, Mistress Doll!

Sick of a calm, yea, good faith.

So is all her sect; an they be once in a calm, they are sick.

A pox damn you, you muddy rascal, is that all the comfort you give me?

You make fat rascals, Mistress Doll.

I make them? Gluttony and diseases make them; I make them not.

If the cook help to make the gluttony, you help to make the diseases,

Doll: we catch of you, Doll. We catch of you; grant that, my poor

virtue, grant that.

Yea, joy, our chains and our jewels.

“Your brooches, pearls, and ouches:”—for to serve bravely is to come

halting off, you know; to come off the breach with his pike bent

bravely, and to surgery bravely; to venture upon the charged chambers

bravely—

Hang yourself, you muddy conger, hang yourself!

By my troth, this is the old fashion; you two never meet but you fall

to some discord. You are both, i’ good truth, as rheumatic as two dry

toasts. You cannot one bear with another’s confirmities. What the

good-year! One must bear, and that must be you. You are the weaker

vessel, as as they say, the emptier vessel.

Can a weak empty vessel bear such a huge full hogshead? There’s a whole

merchant’s venture of Bourdeaux stuff in him; you have not seen a hulk

better stuffed in the hold. Come, I’ll be friends with thee, Jack. Thou

art going to the wars, and whether I shall ever see thee again or no,

there is nobody cares.

Sir, Ancient Pistol’s below, and would speak with you.

Hang him, swaggering rascal! Let him not come hither: it is the

foul-mouthed’st rogue in England.

If he swagger, let him not come here. No, by my faith, I must live

among my neighbours. I’ll no swaggerers. I am in good name and fame

with the very best. Shut the door, there comes no swaggerers here. I

have not lived all this while to have swaggering now. Shut the door, I

pray you.

Dost thou hear, hostess?

Pray ye pacify yourself, Sir John. There comes no swaggerers here.

Dost thou hear? It is mine ancient.

Tilly-fally, Sir John, ne’er tell me. And our ancient swaggerer comes

not in my doors. I was before Master Tisick, the debuty t’other day,

and, as he said to me,—’twas no longer ago than Wednesday last, i’ good

faith,—“Neighbour Quickly,” says he—Master Dumb, our minister, was by

then—“Neighbour Quickly,” says he, “receive those that are civil, for,”

said he “you are in an ill name.” Now he said so, I can tell whereupon.

“For,” says he, “you are an honest woman, and well thought on.

Therefore take heed what guests you receive. Receive,” says he, “no

swaggering companions.” There comes none here. You would bless you to

hear what he said. No, I’ll no swaggerers.

He’s no swaggerer, hostess; a tame cheater, i’ faith, you may stroke

him as gently as a puppy greyhound. He’ll not swagger with a Barbary

hen, if her feathers turn back in any show of resistance. Call him up,

drawer.

Cheater, call you him? I will bar no honest man my house, nor no

cheater, but I do not love swaggering, by my troth, I am the worse when

one says “swagger.” Feel, masters, how I shake; look you, I warrant

you.

So you do, hostess.

Do I? Yea, in very truth, do I, an ’twere an aspen leaf. I cannot abide

swaggerers.

God save you, Sir John!

Welcome, Ancient Pistol. Here, Pistol, I charge you with a cup of sack.

Do you discharge upon mine hostess.

I will discharge upon her, Sir John, with two bullets.

She is pistol-proof, sir; you shall not hardly offend her.

Come, I’ll drink no proofs nor no bullets. I’ll drink no more than will

do me good, for no man’s pleasure, I.

Then to you, Mistress Dorothy! I will charge you.

Charge me! I scorn you, scurvy companion. What, you poor, base,

rascally, cheating, lack-linen mate! Away, you mouldy rogue, away! I am

meat for your master.

I know you, Mistress Dorothy.

Away, you cut-purse rascal, you filthy bung, away! By this wine, I’ll

thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps an you play the saucy cuttle with

me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal, you basket-hilt stale juggler, you!

Since when, I pray you, sir? God’s light, with two points on your

shoulder? Much!

God let me not live, but I will murder your ruff for this.

No more, Pistol! I would not have you go off here. Discharge yourself

of our company, Pistol.

No, good Captain Pistol, not here, sweet captain.

Captain! Thou abominable damned cheater, art thou not ashamed to be

called captain? An captains were of my mind, they would truncheon you

out, for taking their names upon you before you have earned them. You a

captain? You slave, for what? For tearing a poor whore’s ruff in a

bawdy-house? He a captain! Hang him, rogue, he lives upon mouldy stewed

prunes and dried cakes. A captain? God’s light, these villains will

make the word as odious as the word “occupy,” which was an excellent

good word before it was ill sorted. Therefore captains had need look

to’t.

Pray thee go down, good ancient.

Hark thee hither, Mistress Doll.

Not I. I tell thee what, Corporal Bardolph, I could tear her. I’ll be

revenged of her.

Pray thee go down.

I’ll see her damned first to Pluto’s damned lake, by this hand, to th’

infernal deep, with Erebus and tortures vile also. Hold hook and line,

say I. Down, down, dogs! Down, faitors! Have we not Hiren here?

Good Captain Peesel, be quiet, ’tis very late, i’ faith. I beseek you

now, aggravate your choler.

These be good humours, indeed! Shall packhorses

And hollow pamper’d jades of Asia,

Which cannot go but thirty mile a day,

Compare with Caesars and with Cannibals,

And Trojant Greeks? Nay, rather damn them with

King Cerberus; and let the welkin roar.

Shall we fall foul for toys?

By my troth, captain, these are very bitter words.

Be gone, good ancient. This will grow to a brawl anon.

Die men like dogs! Give crowns like pins! Have we not Hiren here?

O’ my word, captain, there’s none such here. What the good-year, do you

think I would deny her? For God’s sake, be quiet.

Then feed and be fat, my fair Calipolis.

Come, give ’s some sack.

Fear we broadsides? No, let the fiend give fire.

Give me some sack; and, sweetheart, lie thou there.

Come we to full points here? And are etceteras nothings?

Pistol, I would be quiet.

Sweet knight, I kiss thy neaf. What! we have seen the seven stars.

For God’s sake, thrust him downstairs. I cannot endure such a fustian

rascal.

Thrust him downstairs? Know we not Galloway nags?

Quoit him down, Bardolph, like a shove-groat shilling. Nay, an he do

nothing but speak nothing, he shall be nothing here.

Come, get you downstairs.

What! shall we have incision? Shall we imbrue?

Then death rock me asleep, abridge my doleful days!

Why then, let grievous, ghastly, gaping wounds

Untwind the Sisters Three! Come, Atropos, I say!

Here’s goodly stuff toward!

Give me my rapier, boy.

I pray thee, Jack, I pray thee, do not draw.

Get you downstairs.

Here’s a goodly tumult! I’ll forswear keeping house, afore I’ll be in

these tirrits and frights. So, murder, I warrant now. Alas, alas, put

up your naked weapons, put up your naked weapons.

I pray thee, Jack, be quiet. The rascal’s gone. Ah, you whoreson little

valiant villain, you!

Are you not hurt i’ th’ groin? Methought he made a shrewd thrust at

your belly.

Have you turned him out o’ doors?

Yea, sir. The rascal’s drunk. You have hurt him, sir, i’ th’ shoulder.

A rascal, to brave me!

Ah, you sweet little rogue, you! Alas, poor ape, how thou sweat’st!

Come, let me wipe thy face. Come on, you whoreson chops. Ah, rogue! i’

faith, I love thee. Thou art as valorous as Hector of Troy, worth five

of Agamemnon, and ten times better than the Nine Worthies. Ah, villain!

A rascally slave! I will toss the rogue in a blanket.

Do, an thou darest for thy heart. An thou dost, I’ll canvass thee

between a pair of sheets.

The music is come, sir.

Let them play. Play, sirs. Sit on my knee, Doll. A rascal bragging

slave! The rogue fled from me like quicksilver.

I’ faith, and thou followedst him like a church. Thou whoreson little

tidy Bartholomew boar-pig, when wilt thou leave fighting a-days and

foining a-nights, and begin to patch up thine old body for heaven?

Peace, good Doll, do not speak like a death’s-head; do not bid me

remember mine end.

Sirrah, what humour ’s the Prince of?

A good shallow young fellow; he would have made a good pantler; he

would ha’ chipped bread well.

They say Poins has a good wit.

He a good wit? Hang him, baboon! His wit’s as thick as Tewksbury

mustard; there’s no more conceit in him than is in a mallet.

Why does the Prince love him so, then?

Because their legs are both of a bigness, and he plays at quoits well,

and eats conger and fennel, and drinks off candles’ ends for

flap-dragons, and rides the wild mare with the boys, and jumps upon

joint stools, and swears with a good grace, and wears his boots very

smooth like unto the sign of the Leg, and breeds no bate with telling

of discreet stories, and such other gambol faculties he has that show a

weak mind and an able body, for the which the Prince admits him: for

the Prince himself is such another. The weight of a hair will turn the

scales between their avoirdupois.

Would not this nave of a wheel have his ears cut off?

Let’s beat him before his whore.

Look whe’er the withered elder hath not his poll clawed like a parrot.

Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance?

Kiss me, Doll.

Saturn and Venus this year in conjunction! What says th’ almanac to

that?

And look whether the fiery Trigon, his man, be not lisping to his

master’s old tables, his note-book, his counsel-keeper.

Thou dost give me flattering busses.

By my troth, I kiss thee with a most constant heart.

I am old, I am old.

I love thee better than I love e’er a scurvy young boy of them all.

What stuff wilt have a kirtle of? I shall receive money o’ Thursday;

shalt have a cap tomorrow. A merry song! Come, it grows late, we’ll to

bed. Thou’lt forget me when I am gone.

By my troth, thou’lt set me a-weeping an thou sayest so. Prove that

ever I dress myself handsome till thy return. Well, hearken a’ th’ end.

Some sack, Francis.

Anon, anon, sir.

Ha! A bastard son of the King’s? And art thou not Poins his brother?

Why, thou globe of sinful continents, what a life dost thou lead!

A better than thou. I am a gentleman, thou art a drawer.

Very true, sir, and I come to draw you out by the ears.

O, the Lord preserve thy Grace! By my troth, welcome to London. Now,

the Lord bless that sweet face of thine! O Jesu, are you come from

Wales?

Thou whoreson mad compound of majesty, by this light flesh and corrupt

blood, thou art welcome.

How? You fat fool, I scorn you.

My lord, he will drive you out of your revenge and turn all to a

merriment, if you take not the heat.

You whoreson candle-mine, you, how vilely did you speak of me even now

before this honest, virtuous, civil gentlewoman!

God’s blessing of your good heart! and so she is, by my troth.

Didst thou hear me?

Yea, and you knew me, as you did when you ran away by Gad’s Hill. You

knew I was at your back, and spoke it on purpose to try my patience.

No, no, no, not so; I did not think thou wast within hearing.

I shall drive you then to confess the wilful abuse, and then I know how

to handle you.

No abuse, Hal, o’ mine honour, no abuse.

Not to dispraise me, and call me pantler and bread-chipper and I know

not what?

No abuse, Hal.

No abuse?

No abuse, Ned, i’ th’ world, honest Ned, none. I dispraised him before

the wicked, that the wicked might not fall in love with thee; in which

doing, I have done the part of a careful friend and a true subject, and

thy father is to give me thanks for it. No abuse, Hal; none, Ned, none;

no, faith, boys, none.

See now whether pure fear and entire cowardice doth not make thee wrong

this virtuous gentlewoman to close with us. Is she of the wicked? Is

thine hostess here of the wicked? Or is thy boy of the wicked? Or

honest Bardolph, whose zeal burns in his nose, of the wicked?

Answer, thou dead elm, answer.

The fiend hath pricked down Bardolph irrecoverable, and his face is

Lucifer’s privy-kitchen, where he doth nothing but roast malt-worms.

For the boy, there is a good angel about him, but the devil outbids him

too.

For the women?

For one of them, she’s in hell already, and burns poor souls. For th’

other, I owe her money, and whether she be damned for that I know not.

No, I warrant you.

No, I think thou art not, I think thou art quit for that. Marry, there

is another indictment upon thee, for suffering flesh to be eaten in thy

house, contrary to the law, for the which I think thou wilt howl.

All victuallers do so. What’s a joint of mutton or two in a whole Lent?

You, gentlewoman.

What says your Grace?

His grace says that which his flesh rebels against.

Who knocks so loud at door? Look to th’ door there, Francis.

Peto, how now, what news?

The King your father is at Westminster,

And there are twenty weak and wearied posts

Come from the north: and as I came along,

I met and overtook a dozen captains,

Bareheaded, sweating, knocking at the taverns,

And asking everyone for Sir John Falstaff.

By heaven, Poins, I feel me much to blame,

So idly to profane the precious time,

When tempest of commotion, like the south

Borne with black vapour, doth begin to melt

And drop upon our bare unarmed heads.

Give me my sword and cloak. Falstaff, good night.

Now comes in the sweetest morsel of the night, and we must hence and

leave it unpicked.

[_Knocking within_.] More knocking at the door?

How now, what’s the matter?

You must away to court, sir, presently.

A dozen captains stay at door for you.

[_To the Page_.] Pay the musicians, sirrah. Farewell, hostess;

farewell, Doll. You see, my good wenches, how men of merit are sought

after. The undeserver may sleep, when the man of action is called on.

Farewell, good wenches. If I be not sent away post, I will see you

again ere I go.

I cannot speak; if my heart be not ready to burst—well, sweet Jack,

have a care of thyself.

Farewell, farewell.

Well, fare thee well. I have known thee these twenty-nine years, come

peascod-time; but an honester and truer-hearted man—well, fare thee

well.

[_Within_.] Mistress Tearsheet!

What’s the matter?

[_Within_.] Bid Mistress Tearsheet come to my master.

O, run, Doll, run; run, good Doll; come. She comes blubbered. Yea, will

you come, Doll?