Prithee, honey, sweet husband, let me bring thee to Staines.

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.

Would I were with him, wheresome’er he is, either in heaven or in hell!

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 o’ 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 hop’d 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.

They say he cried out of sack.

Ay, that ’a did.

And of women.

Nay, that ’a did not.

Yes, that ’a did; and said they were devils incarnate.

’A could never abide carnation; ’twas a colour he never liked.

’A said once, the devil would have him about women.

’A did in some sort, indeed, handle women; but then he was rheumatic,

and talk’d of the whore of Babylon.

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?

Well, the fuel is gone that maintain’d that fire. That’s all the riches

I got in his service.

Shall we shog? The King will be gone from Southampton.

Come, let’s away. My love, give me thy lips.

Look to my chattels and my movables.

Let senses rule; the word is “Pitch and Pay.”

Trust none;

For oaths are straws, men’s faiths are wafer-cakes

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!

And that’s but unwholesome food, they say.

Touch her soft mouth, and march.

Farewell, hostess.

I cannot kiss; that is the humour of it; but, adieu.

Let housewifery appear. Keep close, I thee command.

Farewell; adieu.